


But Among Our Own Selves We'll Be Free, or, Thomas and the Island of the Gays

by Alex51324



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Canon Divergence AU, Crack Treated Seriously, Edwardian Gays, Gen, On the Island of the Gays, Thomas gets kicked out of Downton and finds a real home, Thomas gets therapy, Thomas having low-stakes adventures in a supportive environment, also world-building porn, but no actual porn, except when it sort of is, lots of historical-accuracy porn, not historically accurate, not much plot happening here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 91,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex51324/pseuds/Alex51324
Summary: After the Jimmy incident, and a harrowing attempt at conversion therapy, Thomas finds himself in a most unusual community.  In which Thomas:•	Participates in an Edwardian Queer Studies seminar•	Goes camping•	Takes up journalism•	And most importantly, makes friends.Thanks as always to Beboots for beta, cheerleading, and general awesomeness!
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Community, Thomas Barrow/Happiness
Comments: 558
Kudos: 409





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Continuity Note: This story follows film canon in assuming that Thomas had little-to-no contact with the gay community prior to the beginning of the story. Characters from Halo Effect/Soldier’s Heart (and some of my other stories) appear, but this is an AU where Thomas is meeting them for the first time.  
> Also, apologies to my Jimmy-fan friends, but this is another story where The Incident is used as a plot device to get Thomas out of Downton and heading off in an improbable direction. 
> 
> Title Note: “But among our own selves we’ll be free”—refrain of a bawdy song reportedly sung in the Molly Houses of the 18th century. (Most of the other lyrics are quite indecent!). http://rictornorton.co.uk/eighteen/lechery.htm
> 
> Content Notes (General): One of the major themes of this story is the Island community attempting to assemble and articulate a positive view of homosexuality—which would have been a very uphill struggle at the time. At various points, characters express attitudes, ideas, and language choices that would have been progressive at the time, but have become part of homophobic discourse today. Some readers may find it jarring to see these views expressed by “good guys” in the story. I’ll be providing context for these views in the author’s notes, and will include chapter-by-chapter warnings. If you notice something that I’ve missed warning for, please let me know. 
> 
> Content Notes (Chapter 1): Discussion of conversion therapy/psychiatric abuse, period-typical homophobia, mention to suicide, and brief period-typical racial language and attitudes. Details in endnotes.
> 
> Historical note: Given that Soldier’s Heart is known for its well-researched historical setting, I cannot overemphasize that this story’s central premise—the Island of the Gays—is utter, self-indulgent fantasy. There was no such experimental community for gay men in the British Isles at this time, and it’s virtually impossible that, had some wealthy eccentric chosen to create one, it would have been tolerated, much less given semi-official sanction as a destination for men who had been in contact with the justice system as a result of their orientation. (More in end notes.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas arrives at the Island.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Notes (Chapter 1): Discussion of conversion therapy/psychiatric abuse, period-typical homophobia, mention to suicide, and brief period-typical racial language and attitudes. Details in endnotes.

Thomas stood blinking in the bright light. Bright to his eyes, anyway—he hadn’t stepped foot outside The Clinic for…God, how long had it been? Hadn’t worn his own clothes, either; it felt strange to be wearing shoes with laces in them. 

They watched you when you shaved, too, and counted the razors after you were done. One bloke had managed it anyway—bedsheet twisted into a rope and looped around a doorknob. That had to take some balls. Thomas knew he couldn’t have managed it. Maybe if he’d had a chance, after they told him he was going…wherever it was he was going.

“—Tanner, and that one’s Barrow,” the guard—orderly—was saying. “You want to watch out for that one. Took a swing at me mate earlier this morning.”

“Goodness,” said a more educated voice. Doctor…L, something—Thomas remembered his beard, which resembled some sort of hairy, gray animal hanging off his face. He’d been to examine Thomas, and a couple of the others, some time ago. If Thomas had known what it was about, he’d have lied more. Doctor L. went on talking, something about not giving any further trouble. It ended with a, “Will you, Mr. Barrow?”

Thomas hadn’t been paying enough attention to tell whether the question warranted a “yes” or a “no,” so he just said, “Sir.”

A few more remarks, and a quantity of paperwork, passed between Dr. L. and the Clinic man, and then Thomas and Tanner were herded into a waiting motor-taxi, the guard getting into the front with the driver. There was another gentleman in there—a bit younger than Dr. L., military age maybe, and beardless—but none of the rough sorts that The Clinic employed as orderlies. Bit strange, that, when they were transporting two such dangerous incurables. 

Doctor L. introduced the other gentleman as Doctor something-or-other, but Thomas didn’t catch it. As the cab lurched into motion, Dr. L. began questioning Tanner about his history before The Clinic. Thomas had, deliberately, taken as little notice as possible of his fellow inmate-patients, but he had a vague idea that Tanner had been talkative, at first—and he’d apparently learned nothing from his stay at The Clinic, because it took very little prompting to get him chattering like a magpie. 

He went on until they fetched up at a railway station—Thomas didn’t notice which one—and were herded through the sparse midmorning crowd to a second-class compartment. The guard took the seat nearest the door, then the two gentlemen, and their charges next to the windows. Worn out from the short walk, Thomas let his head slump against the glass.

The respite didn’t last long. Dr. L. started talking again, and Thomas belatedly realized he should have summoned up the wherewithal to pay attention, when whatever he’d been saying finished up with a, “Mr. Barrow?”

Thomas glanced over at Tanner, hoping for some sort of hint as to what he was expected to say, but none was forthcoming. “Sir?” he essayed.

“You were employed as a valet, prior to your time at The Clinic?” Dr. L. repeated, peering at Thomas over his spectacles.

Oh. “Yes, sir.”

“And before that, a footman, and RAMC in the war,” he went on, consulting a document folder that was open on his lap. “We’ll be spoilt for choice, when it comes to finding a place for you.” 

Was that sarcasm? It had to be. Thomas attempted to take umbrage, but gave it up as too much work. “Sir,” he said flatly. 

“Once you’ve settled in, of course,” the other doctor added quickly. “Where were you stationed?”

That one, Thomas had to think about, the place-names hovering just out of his grasp. Finally, he said, “France. Sir.” 

“Hospital work, or in trenches?”

Thomas knew that one. “Yes, sir.”

The second doctor shot a sideways glance at Dr. R, and Thomas realized that his answer hadn’t precisely been enlightening. “Bit of both.” There was more to it than that—hospital work first, then his time at the Front, then hospital again, back in England. But explaining seemed like too much effort. 

Another sideways look at Dr. L., this one more obvious, and the other doctor asked in an undertone, “Is he _drugged_?”

Thomas said, “Yes, sir,” at the same time that Dr. L. said, “He shouldn’t be.”

There was a longish stretch of silence, and Tanner chipped in, “It was after he hit that orderly.” 

Thomas could have done without everybody being reminded of that, but at least they pretty much left him alone, after that. Dr. L. spoke at some length to the guard, and when he’d finished with that, Tanner went on talking nineteen to the dozen, but Thomas just drifted, settling back against the window and letting the scenery pass in front of his eyes. 

He’d only had the sedative, this time, so it wasn’t unpleasant. He was vaguely aware that, by not listening to anything the two doctors were saying, he was missing a lot of valuable information about where he was headed—but he couldn’t quite manage to care.

He’d been full of plans on his way to The Clinic. Them at Downton had arranged for him to be sent. After that disastrous midnight kiss, Jimmy had wanted him sacked without a reference, but somebody—Thomas still wasn’t sure who—had heard of a place that claimed to be able to fix men like him. Thomas knew it had to be nonsense, but with the offer of a decent character after, had agreed to take the cure, figuring that he could always _pretend_ it had worked. 

The brief spell of unemployment while he’d received medical treatment of an unspecified nature would take some explaining, he had thought, but if he alluded to the war, no one would ask many questions—a case of shell-shock was considerably more respectable than the truth, but still not something anyone wanted to discuss at a job interview. 

But, like so many of Thomas’s plans, it hadn’t turned out that way. If he’d known what he was getting himself in for, he’d have taken sacking-without-a-reference like a shot. Not only was the “treatment” more horrific than he could have possibly imagined—the vast majority of the men subjected to it were there as a condition of release from prison—but they had an _utterly_ indecent apparatus for determining whether or not it was working. 

Which, of course, it hadn’t. And if that was how they treated you when they still had some hope for you…well, Thomas really didn’t want to know what they did with the incurable cases. 

He was, unfortunately, going to find out. 

The journey lasted…well, Thomas wasn’t sure, but at one point sandwiches appeared. Thomas looked at his with undisguised loathing, and the orderly made a few threatening moves in his direction, but Dr. L. said something to him, and he subsided without actually making Thomas eat it. 

They wound up somewhere near the sea, and it wasn’t until he’d been herded onto some sort of boat or ferry that Thomas realized they’d left the orderly behind at the railway station. There might have been a chance to escape, somewhere in there, but if there was, Thomas had missed it. 

Decking that guard had probably been a mistake. 

Boarding the boat, Thomas had a vague impression of fairly substantial size, and thought idly of, perhaps, separating himself from his keepers in a crowd, but they four appeared to be the only passengers. The two doctors showed him and Tanner into a place like a waiting room at a very small railway station, with hanging lamps and wooden benches, and passed around tea and biscuits.

The tea was welcome, and the biscuit marginally less unappealing than the sandwiches earlier, so Thomas nibbled at it experimentally. His stomach lurched, and nobody said anything when he abandoned it on the saucer. 

Thomas attempted, and nearly managed, to maintain some awareness of his surroundings, but the only even halfway useful thing he learned was that the journey was a short one. That might have been worth knowing, in terms of escape plans, if Thomas had the slightest idea of how to operate a boat, but he didn’t. 

The boat fetched up at a small, rocky island with a tiny village clinging to one side of it, and they disembarked onto a quay, or wharf, or whatever you called it, where were gathered a few dozen men, and a couple of carts with ponies hitched to them. Everyone, apart from the ponies, eyed Thomas and Tanner with evident curiosity. Thomas wondered just how much they knew about the purpose of the sanitarium. If it was of any size at all, it had to employ at least half the village, so how much of a secret could it be?

Most of the men began unloading cargo from the boat, but Dr. L. gestured to one of them, who trotted over. “These the new arrivals?”

Dr. L. nodded. “Sylvester Tanner, and Thomas Barrow,” he said, indicating them. “Gentlemen, Theo will show you up to the main house and get you settled in.”

Theo was medium-sized and inoffensive-looking. Thomas probably could have taken him—but what would be the point? Theo said something Thomas didn’t catch, to which Tanner replied brightly—flirtatiously, even –“I’m sure we’ll be in good hands.”

Any of the orderlies at The Clinic would have smacked him, but Theo just smiled, and Dr. L. said, “Indeed.” To the one called Theo, he added, “You can give Mr. Tanner the grand tour, but Mr. Barrow has been sedated, so there won’t be much point showing him anything but the essentials. Bring him to my office tomorrow at eleven. He’s excused from everything until then, but do try to get him to eat something.” 

Apparently he’d noticed about the biscuit, after all. 

Theo led them through the village. Thomas noted a pub and a tobacconist, not that either was likely to do him much good, before becoming too weary to bother seeing things. Of the sanitarium itself, he had only a vague impression of a brick pile. Up a staircase, down a corridor, and they wound up in a sort of ward, unoccupied at this time of day. Theo pointed him at one of the cots, and Thomas collapsed onto it and fell promptly and deeply asleep.

He had the sort of vivid and incoherent dreams that you got when you’d been drugged insensible, and woke with a head full of disjointed and rapidly-fading images, a tongue that felt like shoe leather in his mouth, and a chatter of overlapping voices.

The rest of the ward’s inmates were back now, a half-dozen or so of them, and they all seemed to be talking at once, as they shaved or changed their shirts or combed their hair. It reminded Thomas a bit of a barracks in the war, and not at all of The Clinic, where making any kind of sound was more or less inviting the orderlies to come and shut you up. 

“He wakes!” said a familiarly irritating voice. Tanner, and he must’ve changed his clothes since getting here; Thomas couldn’t imagine The Clinic letting him out on the street in a tie like _that_. It almost looked like a lady’s silk scarf. 

“You feeling all right?” asked Theo. 

Thomas sort of grunted, and Theo pointed him at the W.C. After splashing some cold water on his face, Thomas felt marginally more human. He emerged from that sanctuary to find that much of the crowd had departed, leaving Theo, Tanner, and a couple of others. “We’re just going down to dinner, if you feel up to it,” Theo told him. “I’d have told the rest of that lot to keep it down a bit, except I was halfway thinking I ought to wake you up for it anyway.” 

He must, Thomas thought, be a patient, some sort of trustee, rather than an employee. The Clinic had had a few of those, and as a rule, they’d been worse than the orderlies, but this Theo didn’t seem to have put much of a damper on Tanner. As they started back down the stairs, Thomas essayed a question. “What do they do to you here, if you don’t eat?”

Stopping halfway down the staircase, Theo glanced over his shoulder and up at Thomas. “Nothing much,” he said, with a hint of pity that made Thomas want to kick him. “Did they give you a _treatment_ before you left that place this morning?”

“No,” Thomas said. 

Theo continued walking. “Sometimes it takes a bit for your appetite to come back,” he said. “But the food here’s not bad, usually.”

Thomas was dubious about that—the slop they shoved at you at The Clinic was barely edible even if you weren’t heaving your guts up two or three times a day. But the dining room that Theo led them to had, if anything, even less in common with The Clinic than the ward had. It looked more like the dining room of an hotel that had come down in the world a bit—wainscoting, chipped; lamps, numerous but sooty and tarnished; tablecloths, white linen, but stained and mended in places. There were about half a dozen tables, each seating six or eight. It was about as loud as an Army mess of comparable size, but without the shoving and swearing. 

He, Tanner, and Theo sat at a table with four others. Theo introduced them, but Thomas didn’t catch the names. One of them asked him something, and he blinked stupidly. 

“Thomas had a bit of a rough morning,” Theo said delicately. “I’m not sure he’s feeling quite himself yet.”

The others all made sympathetic noises, and before long, another bloke arrived, carrying a large, heavily-laden tray. The ones nearest him helped unload it, and then the newcomer sat in their table’s remaining chair. 

That, too, reminded him a bit of the Army. The mess tins held enough for six, and usually one man was dispatched to queue up for it. But, as Theo had intimated, the food looked to be quite a bit better than Army rations, with meat that had clearly never seen the inside of a tin, roasted potatoes that were still crisp, and fresh bread. The dishes were passed around the table, and as each one came to him, Thomas warily helped himself to a few bites’ worth of everything. 

He didn’t do much more than pick at it, but no one seemed to take any notice. There was a great deal of conversation, mostly about people Thomas didn’t know. From various bits and pieces, he gradually gathered that several of the men were, in fact, employed in the village, so perhaps Dr. L. hadn’t entirely been taking the piss—though it was difficult to imagine anyone in such a remote place needing a valet, much less one who was an incurable homosexual. 

When the dishes were cleared, the bloke sitting next to Thomas offered him a cigarette, which Thomas was happy to accept. He lit it for Thomas, too, which caused him to raise a mental eyebrow, but was perhaps just as well—Thomas didn’t have the faintest idea what had happened to his lighter. “Thanks,” he said, and groped for the man’s name. 

“Richard,” he supplied, adding, “This place is…a lot to take in.”

“You said it,” Thomas muttered.

“I’d invite you to come find me if you need a native guide, but we’re not allowed in each others’ rooms. For obvious reasons.”

“No,” Thomas agreed. He didn’t suppose they would be. 

“You’ll be all right, once your head stops spinning,” Richard added. 

“Yeah?” Thomas asked.

“Yeah,” Richard said, with a warm smile. 

Worn out from the exertion of dinner, Thomas slept fairly well…at first. Somewhere in the small hours, he woke again, jittery and ill at ease. At The Clinic, they didn’t want you getting out of bed until they told you do, but no one stopped him, when he ventured to the W.C. for another restorative splash of cold water. Emboldened by this success, he stood for a while at a window—open, and unbarred—wishing he had a cigarette. 

He thought he might be in for it when Theo, who slept in the ward with them, stirred, but he only said, in a whisper, “You all right, Barrow?”

“Yes,” he whispered back. “Just—awake.”

Theo made a sleepy sort of sound, and fumbled in the bedside table, producing a watch, which he peered at in the moonlight. “It’ll be at least three hours before anyone’s up,” he said, with a yawn. “But if you’re still up then, I’ll show you around before breakfast.” 

It was very difficult to tell, Thomas reflected, whether that was meant as a treat or a threat, but whatever it was, he was still up some hours later, when the watery light of dawn crept through the curtains. He gradually realized that the large shape at the foot of his bunk was, in fact, the trunk he’d packed with all his things before going to The Clinic, and hadn’t seen since. He was itching to check if any of his things had been pinched, but stayed where he was, feigning sleep as a man came into the ward and shook one of the others awake.

The other man had a rummage through his own trunk, suggesting that this was an authorized morning activity, so once he had dressed and gone, Thomas sat up slowly and eased open the clasps on his. 

On top was his overcoat, under that his good suit, and hidden away at the very bottom were the dozen packs of cigarettes he’d laid in for his “treatment.” They might be pretty stale now, but infinitely better than nothing. He stuck one pack in the pocket of his pyjamas, and two more under the mattress, in case his trunk disappeared again.

The latter, while a sensible precaution, had the unintended side effect of waking up Theo, who glared at him balefully for a moment before grabbing a sponge bag and stumbling off toward the W.C. 

He emerged a few minutes later, freshly shaven and looking marginally more awake. He caught Thomas’s eye and tilted his head in the direction where he’d been, and mouthed, “All yours.”

So Thomas collected his own things from his trunk, and enjoyed his first unsupervised shave (et cetera) in some months. His face in the mirror was pale and haggard, but when he’d emerged, dressed, and met Theo in the corridor, Theo said, “You look a bit less ghastly than you did last night.”

“Thanks,” Thomas said, dryly. 

“I _meant_ , I hope you feel less ghastly.”

“I suppose,” Thomas admitted.

“Good,” Theo said, and launched into the tour. The ward they’d just left, he explained, was for new arrivals. Once they thought you could be trusted to behave yourself, you were allowed your own bedroom—in which, he echoed Richard from the previous night, you were not permitted to entertain callers. The rest of the corridor was bedrooms, and so, apparently, were the two floors above. 

If they were laid out the same as this one, Thomas calculated that meant bedrooms for about thirty patients. A bit fewer, he thought, than had been at dinner the night before. 

Perhaps there was somewhere else they sent you, after the Arrivals Ward, if you _couldn’t_ be trusted to behave yourself. 

“There isn’t really anything to see up here, so we’ll go downstairs,” Theo said. 

They took the same route as they had to go down to dinner, but the night before, Thomas had not had the wherewithal to notice that it was a wide staircase, with carved banisters that were now considerably scuffed, but had once been fairly good. 

Not, in other words, the servants’ stairs. 

They emerged into a front hall. “Post gets left on that table,” Theo said. “But it only comes once a week, when the boat comes with our supplies. You remember where the dining room is?” At Thomas’s nod, he continued, “Next to it’s the meeting room.” He opened the door briefly, revealing a glimpse of a circle of ill-assorted chairs, arranged under a lozenge that had probably once held a chandelier. “And over on this side, there’s the library—don’t expect too much of it, but it’s quiet—smoking room, big parlour, small parlour.” 

These rooms, too, showed traces of past grandeur. Theo let them out onto a rather chilly veranda, where he lit a cigarette, offering one to Thomas. “Stable and outbuildings are over there—I don’t imagine you’re much interested in those?”

“Not particularly,” Thomas admitted. 

Nodding, Theo gestured back toward the house, to a small wing jutting out to the left. “That bit’s Dr. L.’s domain—consulting rooms on the ground floor, and he lives above the shop, so to speak. You can get to him from inside, but the door’s in an awkward spot, so unless it’s really bucketing down, it’s actually easier to go around this way.” 

“I see,” Thomas said, though he wasn’t sure he did.

“The place was built as an hotel,” Theo explained. “That wing was the private quarters of the family that owned it—or ran it, something like that. I expect they didn’t want paying guests blundering in there, demanding hot water and extra towels.”

The _floor plan_ was not precisely the part that left Thomas confused, but he only said, “I thought it looked like an hotel.”

“Never a very successful one, I gather,” Theo said. “I believe they envisioned it as a rival to Bognor, but, well, the place gets barely a dozen sunny days a year, and half of those it’s too cold to step outside without a coat. They got a few visitors for the fishing and shooting, but not much. Then an uncle of Dr. L.’s had a go at running it as a tuberculosis sanitarium, but the climate’s not any more suited for that than it is for a seaside resort. Dr. L. took it over around the turn of the century, and, well, third time lucky, I suppose.”

“Not like the current clientele is in a position to be _choosy_ ,” Thomas pointed out. 

“There is that,” Theo agreed, tapping ash from his cigarette. “Not everyone comes here from the same place—most of the ones who work for a living, yeah, but Dr. L. has arrangements with a private clinic or two, and some Harley Street specialists. But there isn’t another place like this they could go.”

“I see,” Thomas repeated, once again without complete honesty.

“He does insist that they’ve attempted the cure somewhere,” Theo added. “Dr. L. does, I mean. And that they ‘demonstrate commitment to the community’ by spending whacking great sums on fifty-year leaseholds. Which is more or less the way he manages to keep the place running for the rest of us, so….” He shrugged. “Which is all just to say, if you liked being a valet, we haven’t got any earls, but we’ve got one’s younger son. Lord Gerald—he lives up there.” Theo gestured in the direction of the only other substantially-sized building in view, a stone house, looking considerably older than the hotel, which Thomas wouldn’t have hesitated to call a smallish manor, if it had been located anywhere other than a few miles west of nowhere. 

“…huh,” Thomas said. 

“He’s nice,” Theo added. “If it was a butler he was looking for, I’d be tempted to take it myself, but he’s got one of those, some chap who came with him from the ancestral pile. And I like the job I have now.”

“What’s that?” Thomas asked.

“This,” he said. “Looking after the new fellows. I used to—well, never mind.” He tossed away his cigarette and led the way back inside. Showing Thomas through a very battered green baize door, he explained that all of the “residents,” as the patients seemed to be called, pitched in with various chores, on a rotating basis—Dave, the one who’d been woken up a bit earlier was taking his turn as cook’s helper this week—but a few, Theo among them, were employed for particular jobs. 

“You’ll be assigned something to do in a day or two,” Theo added. “Nothing complicated, to start with. You were a footman, before you were a valet?”

“Yes.”

“It’ll be something you can just about do with your eyes closed and one hand tied behind your back.” 

Downstairs were all of the usual domestic offices—a slightly bigger kitchen than Thomas would have expected in a private house of this size, but the only really striking difference was that the workers were all men. 

Over breakfast, Thomas mulled over Theo’s suggestion that he might valet the resident lord, and all that it implied. If gentlemen—and even a peer’s son— _paid_ to be here, it really couldn’t be very much like The Clinic, as Thomas’s own observations had already suggested. But Theo’s offhand statement about the gentlemen paying to keep the rest of them pointed to another sinister possibility. Toffs treating the working class as their own personal brothel wasn’t precisely _new_ , although a house full of working-class queers on a remote island was a more extreme version of the concept than Thomas had ever encountered. 

If that was how it was, he could think of worse fates than being under the protection of the “nice” Lord Gerald. 

After breakfast was something called the “morning meeting,” which Thomas was, Theo reminded him, not strictly required to attend, since he was “excused from everything” until his appointment with Dr. L. later that morning, but, lacking any notion of what he might do instead, Thomas followed the rest into the meeting room.

From the name, he vaguely imagined some sort of Nonconformist religious service, and this impression was not dispelled when the man in charge, a portly gent of about fifty, introduced himself as “Father Timothy.” Nor when the meeting began with a prayer, during which they were all required to hold hands. 

After that, though, the meeting moved on to secular matters. First, Thomas and Tanner—“call me Syl”—were introduced to the rest of the group, and then there was a rather lengthy—and somewhat contentious—discussion of the task roster for the coming week. Thomas and Syl, who it turned out had also been a footman before the war, were assigned to tidying the smoking room and library. (Theo said he would “show them the ropes,” but Thomas quite agreed with his earlier assessment of the difficulty of the assignment.) 

Following that was a short homily on the theme of Respecting Others in the Common Areas—Thomas could hear the capital letters—which mostly had to do with not leaving one’s things lying about, and the smoking room and large parlour being the approved locations for “lively activity,” while the library and small parlour were reserved for quiet pastimes. 

The final item of business was a series of notices about what Father Timothy termed “community events.” He and someone called Mr. Braceridge were leading a nature walk on Saturday afternoon, the amateur dramatics group were doing a concert in a few nights’ time, and so on—the sort of wholesome claptrap they made you do at rest camps during the war. The meeting concluded with a hymn—no hand-holding this time, fortunately—and about half of the group hurried off to their day’s work, while those who had nothing in particular to do next stood around chatting in small groups.

“Call me Syl” dragged Theo over to the priest to find out more about the amateur dramatics—he was, apparently, a _chanteuse_ —leaving Thomas to stand awkwardly by the door and wait for something to happen.

He wasn’t left waiting long. “You’re looking a bit less grim,” said Richard, from last night, approaching with a lugubrious-looking fellow who was trailed by a dingy heap of grayish rags that Thomas eventually concluded was a dog of some sort. 

Thomas nodded, unsure what to say. 

“This is Morrow—Ben Morrow—and Wilberforce,” Richard went on.

The probable-dog raised his head from his paws at the mention of his name. 

“Barrow,” Thomas said, even though the entire assemblage had been told his name not a half-hour earlier. 

Morrow made a vague sound of acknowledgement. 

“So, ah,” Richard said, “what are your plans for the day?”

 _Plans_? “I’m supposed to see Dr. L. at eleven,” Thomas said. “And I suppose I’m tidying the library and smoking room at some point. Apart from that, I don’t know.”

Richard seemed about to say something, but Morrow jumped in. “He’ll probably make you go to Group,” he said grimly.

Again, Thomas heard the capital letter. He wondered if Group was anything like Treatment. 

“He probably will,” Richard agreed, adding, “It’s not too bad. You just sit around and talk about your neuroses for an hour.”

Thinking that he just might prefer a Clinic Treatment over that—though it would be a tough call—Thomas shared a look of mutual understanding with Morrow. “What if you haven’t got any neuroses?” he asked, momentarily forgetting that they _all_ had at least one, in common.

But Richard said, “Then you don’t have to go to Group. Well, except Newcomers’ Group. Everybody has to do that one.” Before Thomas could angle for more details about Newcomers’ Group, he went on, “Apart from Group, there isn’t a whole lot of psychiatry that goes on, here. You have a chat with Dr. L. once in a while, so he can see how you’re getting on, but really, it’s a lot like being in a rest camp, back in the Army. Except they don’t make you carry ammunition up to the Front.”

Covering his surprise at hearing his own thoughts echoed, Thomas said, “But do they make you play football?”

Richard chuckled. “There’s football, but it isn’t mandatory. Not a sportsman, are you?”

“I’m all right at cricket,” Thomas answered. 

“That’ll make you popular,” Richard noted. “The cricket crowd’s always looking for more players. But none of the leisure activities are mandatory.”

“So they say,” Morrow muttered darkly.

Richard turned his eyes heavenward. “If you won’t do _anything_ , Dr. L. gets shirty about ‘taking part in the spirit of the community.’ But as long as you aren’t a grump who hates everything, you should be fine.”

Morrow said, “I don’t hate Wilberforce,” and Thomas privately resolved to find out exactly how much “taking part” you had to do in order to be left in peace. 

About then, Theo and Call-me-Syl collected him, and Theo showed them around the grounds a bit—vegetable patch here, chickens there, and so on. Thomas didn’t really take in much of it, though, because he wasn’t at all interested in vegetables and chickens.

And maybe just a little bit because, with each bit of agriculture Theo pointed out, Thomas’s appointment with Dr. L. was drawing nearer. 

It would be crucial, he knew, to tell the man in charge what he wanted to hear—but what, in God’s name, was that? If only Thomas had been able to pay more attention yesterday, when Dr. L. had been talking to Syl, he’d at least have some idea what kind of questions to expect.

Theo probably knew—hell, even Syl could fill him in to some degree—but Thomas couldn’t think of a way to get them on the subject, short of coming right out and asking. So he just followed the others around, attempting to feign interest in cows and things, until the appointed hour came. 

The doctor’s lair was, at least, reassuringly carpeted—not at all the sort of thing you’d want people being sick on. (He couldn’t think of a reason Richard would have misled him about them doing Treatments here, but he couldn’t rule it out.) 

Dr. L. sat behind a large desk, and there was an analyst’s couch against one wall, just like in the comic papers, but to Thomas’s relief, he was gestured into an armchair opposite the desk, instead. 

“Feeling better?” Dr. L. asked.

That was an easy one, at least. “Yes, sir.”

“Good, good.” He opened a document folder on the desk. “Let’s see, the Clinic did the usual course of treatment with you—perfunctory attempt at talk therapy…doesn’t look like you gave them much?”

Of course he bloody well hadn’t. “Sir.” 

“Hypnosis—you were a difficult subject there, as well, and then a rather protracted course of aversion therapy.”

With a manful effort, Thomas managed to repress a shudder. “Yes, sir.”

“What did you think of it?”

What he thought, when he hadn’t been heaving his guts out, was that the pornography they showed you was filthier and more lurid than anything Thomas had even imagined existed. The French postcard with the girl and the donkey had nothing on it. “Sir?”

Dr. L. raised an eyebrow. “Did you feel as though it was doing you any good?”

How the hell was he meant to answer that? “Well,” he said slowly. Following it up with a “sir”—always a safe bet—bought him another fraction of a second to think. “It certainly wasn’t pleasant.” It wasn’t _meant_ to be, so that should be safe, too. “And it didn’t _work_ , so….” He trailed off. 

Thomas thought this a fairly neat piece of diplomacy, under the circumstances, but Dr. L. didn’t looked impressed. “Let me put it another way,” he said. “Before The Clinic, did you feel that you were _ill_?”

Why would he ask a thing like that? “I knew I wasn’t like everyone else, if that’s what you mean.” It came out more sharply than he intended. “Sir.” 

“Of course,” said Dr. L. “But did it—this is difficult to express. Did you truly feel that there was something _wrong_ with you? That these…behaviors were unnatural?”

For an instant, Thomas was back in Carson’s pantry, before the hell that was The Clinic, saying, _I’m not the same as you, but I’m not foul_. He knew what he was meant to say, and if he’d been drugged up to his eyeballs and so sick he couldn’t stand upright, he’d have said it. But now, in this peaceful room, after nearly 24 hours in which nothing abjectly awful had happened…he got as far as forming the lie in his mind— _yes, of course, sir, dreadful affliction, and it would have all been worth it if only they’d been able to fix me_ —but he couldn’t force it out. 

A long silence stretched, Dr. L. regarding him with a pleasantly expectant expression. 

Thomas remembered striking his lighter and holding his hand up above the parapet. His hand ached. “No,” he said flatly. “Sir. I can’t really say as I do.”

Then he waited for hell to break loose—and nearly jumped out of his skin when Dr. L. leaned forward, smacking the desk with the flat of his hand. “Precisely.” Settling back in his chair and taking out a pipe, the doctor continued, “You see, in some cases—perhaps the majority of those that come to the attention of the police—homosexuality is an _acquired_ vice. Men—often those in whom the sex impulse is unusually strong—turn to it in the absence of women, or out of a desire for novelty, or simply because the opportunity presents itself. If the act is successful, the man naturally becomes more willing to try it again—the principle being essentially the same as that behind the aversion treatment, except that the stimulus of the male body is connected with the pleasurable sensation of climax—and it can eventually become an engrained habit, and even overtake the normal sexual impulse. Do you understand?”

That blokes messed about with other blokes because it felt good? “I believe so, sir.”

“That type of case—pseudo-homosexuality—is very treatable. Sometimes even resolves on its own, if before it’s become too engrained, the man returns to mixed-sex society, or has a narrow escape from the police, say, and is shocked into reconsidering his behavior. But I knew as soon as I read your case notes that you weren’t one of those.”

What was that supposed to mean? “Sir?”

“The pseudo-homosexual’s interest in other men is nearly always carnal in emphasis. Simple lust. They don’t romanticize it. But _you_ —” He picked up the file, with the hand that wasn’t holding the pipe. “You kissed your footman because, you told The Clinic doctors, you were leaving your place of employment and wanted him to know how you felt?”

Damn it. Thomas had said that, back at the very beginning. “Yes, sir.” 

“And because this lady’s maid—his aunt?—said that he reciprocated your affections.”

“She was the other footman’s aunt,” Thomas said. Not that it was at all important. “Sir.”

Dr. L. made a note on the file. “This emphasis on feeling, in your account, is what tells the tale. You see, in the genuine homosexual, the _entirety_ of the sexual impulse, both the physical and the emotional, is directed toward the same sex. He desires not just physical release, but psychic communion with another man.” 

The funny thing was, Dr. L. didn’t sound as though he was speaking of something loathsome, at all. Thomas nodded, and the doctor went on.

“And in nearly every case, a close analysis of the individual’s history reveals that the sexual impulse has been directed in this way since before pubescence—that is to say, before any experiences which could have perverted the impulse into this direction. That being the case, any treatment which has its basis in re-directing the sexual impulse back into its natural channel will be ineffective—because for him, the homosexual impulse _is_ natural.”

What. “Sir,” Thomas said, doubtfully.

“Yes?”

Quickly reviewing what the doctor had said, Thomas found a question he could reasonably ask. “You said that, ah, it—I—can’t be cured through…the way they tried at The Clinic. Is there some other way, then?” He wasn’t sure whether he hoped there was or wasn’t. It probably wouldn’t work either, anyway.

“There is a treatment,” Dr. L. said. “Not a cure. A born homosexual, like yourself, cannot be cured, any more than a Negro can be cured of his skin color, because it isn’t a pathology, but rather an innate part of his organism.” 

Thomas wasn’t entirely sure he liked being compared to a Negro—but he supposed the Negro might find the comparison even more offensive. 

“An abnormal part, to be sure,” the doctor continued. “Like colour-blindness, it’s a disadvantage, but one that is exacerbated by its rarity. The colour-blind man struggles with traffic signal-lights, and coloured advertisements where the text appears to him to be the same shade as the ground. Much of art is inaccessible to him, and clothing and wallpaper that appear pleasant to him may be ugly to the rest of the world, and vice-versa. But if half the world were colour-blind, signal-lights and advertisements would be designed so that both halves could read them, and the colour-blind man would find art that reflects the way he sees the world, and clothing and wallpaper that is intended for him.” He paused. “Incidentally, you aren’t colour-blind, are you?”

“No, sir,” Thomas said.

“It doesn’t seem to be any more common among homosexuals than anyone else. Left-handedness might be.” He made another note, presumably of the fact that Thomas was not colour-blind. “The case of the homosexual is even worse than that of the colour-blind man, because society is not merely indifferent to his needs, but actively persecutes him. He is denied any respectable outlet for his natural impulses, and his seeking a dis-respectable outlet makes him a danger to the public health, because he encourages the pseudo-homosexual in his vices. And often receives little satisfaction himself, in the encounter, because of the absence of the psychic element.” 

Thomas thought of Phillip Crowborough, burning his love letters and then suggesting Thomas stay for a tumble. 

The doctor puffed at his pipe and, finding it had gone out, re-lit it. “Does that, ah, sound like something you’ve experienced?”

A direct question, he more-or-less had to answer it. “Yes. Sir.” 

“Ah.” The pipe successfully lit, he puffed for a moment. “I thought you might have.” He did not, thank God, demand details. “Have you any questions, at this point?”

Thomas did have one, and after a moment’s consideration, decided to ask it. “The _treatment_ , sir?” He really did want to know what he was in for. 

“The treatment, yes. I was getting to it. The goal of our treatment method is not to change your nature, but to enable you to live with it. In this way, the born homosexual can live a life as healthy and as satisfying as anyone else’s.”

So it was the cold baths and wheat-bran cure, then. That explained the cricket. Well, it was probably an improvement over the more lurid scenario Thomas had thought of that morning, and _definitely_ an improvement over The Clinic. He was used to long stretches of celibacy, and with Treatments still fresh in his mind, he didn’t particularly want to even _look_ at a cock any time soon.

Thomas assumed an expression of slightly confused interest, and, as he had hoped, the doctor went on. 

“There is, often, some degree of neuroticism—either innate, or acquired through the stresses of living in a world that does not welcome him. Or, lately, from the War. And the experience of The Clinic doesn’t help, either. For these difficulties, we prescribe the same treatments as for anyone else—sound nutrition, healthy exercise, fresh air, productive work that is suited as possible to the man’s nature, and a bit of talk therapy.” With a glance at the analyst’s couch, which Thomas had been studiously avoiding looking at, he added, “Formal psychoanalysis is reserved for the most serious cases. Most of the men are seen in groups, led by myself or my assistant, which, in addition to being more efficient, provides an element of mutual support. There are several groups, for different needs, but you’ll start off in Newcomer’s Group, which focuses on understanding and accepting your condition, developing self-restraint and self-respect, and adjusting to our community.” 

That didn’t sound _too_ dire—and once he’d had a chance to think a bit about everything Dr. L. had told him, he’d likely be able to figure out what sort of stuff they wanted to hear. If he played his cards right, he might be able to avoid any of the other Groups. 

“And that community is, of course, an important part of the treatment as well. Many of our residents have struggled with…expressing themselves, forming friendships, because their nature is at odds with the expectations of the larger world, and because of the strain of keeping a shameful and dangerous secret. But here, you are, in effect, normal.”

From his expression, Thomas could tell that Dr. L. expected some reaction to this bit of news, but he couldn’t figure out what. He settled on, “I see, sir.”

“Do you?” The doctor sounded skeptical. “In many ways, we’re a village like any other. We have people from all walks of life, sport and entertainments such as you might find anywhere in Britain, a church and a pub…just with one rather significant difference.”

He paused for effect, and Thomas blurted out, “Wait, do you mean the whole village is—” Hearing himself, he promptly shut up.

“Yes. Well, except for Mrs. Williams who runs the laundry. She worked for both of this place’s previous incarnations, and when I explained to her the nature of what I meant to do here, she said that at least what our residents have isn’t catching, and that she’d been born here, and we’d have to carry her off feet first. She’s a bit of a character,” he added, with a smile. “But everyone else, yes.”

“I see, sir.” Well, _that_ was interesting. 

Dr. L. regarded him with a pleasantly expectant expression for a moment, then went on, “In addition to the unique environment, we also approach the issue of homosexuality or sexual inversion in a different way to most other, ah, experts in the topic. Rather than reducing it to a series of base urges, we identify and cultivate the higher, spiritual side, much as the larger world encourages heterosexual—that is, normal—men to do with their sex impulses.” 

Another expectant look, this time more pointed. “Sir?” Thomas asked.

“From an early age, the heterosexual learns, from the example of the men around him, how the sex impulse is to be managed—as, indeed, does the woman, although she is more often encouraged to deny or repress her sex impulse. In adolescence, the sex impulse is best directed into other pursuits—success in school, or on the playing field, in friendship—adolescent friendship in both sexes often has a romantic character—into hobbies, and so on. Some continue this process of sublimation into a celibate adulthood; indeed, a great deal of artistic and intellectual achievement can be attributed to homosexuals who have more-or-less successfully sublimated their sex instinct.”

And that explained the amateur theatricals, as well. Well, if the good doctor thought that giving Thomas enough to do would stop him wanting to have it off with other blokes, he wasn’t going to argue—it couldn’t hurt, and might help. He nodded understanding.

“But more usually, in adulthood, the normal sex impulse is integrated into everyday life, through the ideals of marital fidelity and commitment. The carnal element is tamed, as it were, by entwining it with the higher element, and channeling it into a form which emphasizes affection, mutual cherishing, and a shared life, while maintaining the carnal as a small but important part that supports the rest.”

Thomas blinked. He couldn’t possibly be saying what Thomas thought he was saying.

“In short, while we encourage our residents to consider the merits of a celibate life, we say, as Saint Paul said to the Corinthians, that is it better to marry than to burn.” 

That was what he was saying. Unless there was another hotel full of Sapphic women on the other side of the island, and he’d been lying about not wanting to change Thomas’s nature. “Sir,” he said, skeptically.

“These are not, I stress, mock marriages like those carried out in the molly houses of the last century,” Dr. L. added. “They are, of course, not recognized outside of our community, but within it, they have the full force of custom, if not of law. Promiscuity is no more acceptable here than it is in the larger world. Couples wishing to embark upon a conjugal life are counseled, together and separately, to be sure that neither is making a hasty choice, and then they make a public expression of commitment—usually in church—and from then on, enjoy the privacy and privileges of an ordinary married couple.”

No hotel full of women, then. Thomas wished ardently for an opportunity to absorb this information—and to figure out the catch—without an audience, but it was not to be. Dr. L. watched him patiently for a long moment, and finally Thomas nodded. 

Bestowing a kindly smile on him, the doctor said, “It is quite a lot to take in. That’s why we pay so much attention to newcomers’ adjustment to the community—why we have Newcomer’s Group, why you begin by living communally in the main house, and takes part in daily meetings, and so on. There is, you may have noticed, a certain element of surveillance, which is gradually decreased as you make your adjustment. We don’t want the place turning into a den of vice.”

“Of course, sir,” said Thomas, politely and automatically. He could see how that would be a problem.

“You are welcome, and indeed encouraged, to associate with whomever you wish, but while you are in Newcomer’s Group, we use a sort of chaperonage system. You may participate freely in organized activities, accept any invitations from respectable and well-established members of the community, and use the common areas in and around the main house. If you wish to go into the village, or to explore the rest of the island, you’ll need to consult with Theo about your plans, and go either alone or in a party of three or more. It’s a bit of an inconvenience, I know,” he added apologetically.

“It’s—fine, sir.” Until he ran out of cigarettes, he had no particular reason to go to the village, anyway. And Theo seemed reasonable enough. 

“Newcomers always live in the main house, and those without private means usually work there, as well. That is, everyone who lives in the main house is expected to pitch in—I believe you were already given an assignment at Morning Meeting?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. We have everyone take part, as a way of fostering a sense of community, but there’s paid work for those who want it, once you’ve settled in a bit.”

That was good to know—after he ran out of cigarettes, Thomas’s next problem would be running out of money to buy more. He did wonder, however, where Theo’s suggestion that he might valet the nice Lord Gerald came in. 

There was another long pause and expectant look, and finally the doctor said, “Have you any questions?”

Thousands, obviously. “No, sir.”

“Very well. Once you’ve finished with Newcomer’s Group, you’ll be able to come and go as you please, but we still encourage going out in parties of three or more—especially if you intend to go somewhere out of public view. At that point, you’re also permitted to make your own living arrangements if you wish, but those without private means usually stay in the main house.”

Dr. L. looked at him expectantly again, and this time Thomas came up with a question. “How long does the, ah, Newcomer’s Group last?”

“It varies, depending on your progress. If you make a good adjustment, two or three months, but some men are in Newcomer’s Group considerably longer.” 

So that was how they got you to play along with what they wanted. Fair enough, Thomas supposed. 

“Is there anything else that you’d like to ask me?”

Like what? “Sir?”

The smile was slightly strained this time. “How does all this sound to you?”

Well, since he was asking, it sounded barking mad. Not _bad_ , but absolutely bonkers. “Fine. Sir.”

Dr. L. sat back and did some more fiddling with his pipe. “Very well. Let’s talk again next week, all right?”

Thomas wondered what would happen if he said “no.” “Yes, sir.”

#

Taking off his spectacles, Edmund closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Mr. Barrow, he reflected, was going to be a tough nut to crack. It wasn’t unusual—at all—for men fresh from The Clinic to be suspicious and withdrawn; nor was Mr. Tanner’s almost manic gaiety outside the norm. But the two of them reflected, as it were, opposite extremes of the range of usual responses, and he did not envy Theo Hill the task of shepherding the two of them through the next few days. 

No, he did not envy Mr. Hill at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Notes (detailed):
> 
> Conversion therapy: When the story begins, Thomas has just ended a course of conversion “therapy” for his homosexuality. The details of this treatment are alluded to, rather than discussed in depth, but it’s evident that it was very unpleasant. The current environment is safe, but for most of the chapter, Thomas doesn’t know that.
> 
> Period-typical homophobia: In this chapter, the psychiatrist in charge of the island attempts to explain Thomas’s “condition” to him. In doing so, he engages with the culturally-available views of homosexuality as a crime, a moral failing, or a sickness—sometimes pushing back against these frameworks, other times accepting them. Probably most upsetting to modern eyes is the discussion of innate versus acquired homosexuality—basically, the old canard about homosexuals “converting” others to these wicked ways. This now-discredited idea was taken absolutely seriously by the legal system and public health officials at the time, and so, anyone arguing for compassionate treatment of homosexuals would have had to grapple with it.  
> There’s a lot more about this in the extended historical note—the doctor’s views are based on those of a real turn-of-the-20th-century sexologist.
> 
> Period-typical racial language: At one point, the doctor in charge of the Island compares Thomas’s homosexuality to the skin color of “a Negro.” In the narration, Thomas briefly wonders to whom this comparison is more insulting. That line was a bit uncomfortable to write, but the implicit racism is integral to the point the doctor is making—that both of these are natural variations that have been assigned a negative meaning by the culture in that place and time.
> 
> Historical note, continued:
> 
> Additionally, while various cures—of varying degrees of medical respectability—were offered, I am aware of no specific instance of “taking the cure” being offered as an alternative to imprisonment until the middle of the century (see: Alan Turing). If I had to bet, I’d say it probably happened from time to time, but would have been an under-the-table arrangement involving wealthy or otherwise influential individuals. The Clinic, as a medico-legal institution dedicated to the purpose, is pure invention.
> 
> “Treatments” for homosexuality ranged from Freudian psychoanalysis at one end of the spectrum, to ghastly surgical experiments involving the transplanting of testicles and other glands from heterosexual cadavers or male animals. Aversion “therapy” for homosexuality, usually involving emetics or electric shocks, is well-documented as having been used in the mid-20th century, but I’m not sure it actually existed this early. I used it because the idea of The Clinic even existing seemed more plausible if the approach was overtly punitive.
> 
> That said, there is an actual, in-period basis for Dr. L.’s approach, which are inspired by ideas expressed in Havelock Ellis’s Sexual Inversion, which went through various editions from 1897 to 1915, and can be read here: https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/000429575 The book includes a review of the (scant) medical and psychiatric literature on homosexuality, and extensive case histories of both male and female “inverts” (Ellis’s preferred term).
> 
> Here, I ran up against A03's length limit for endnotes, so for more about Dr. Ellis, see this post on my Tumblr: https://alex51324.tumblr.com/post/632267456679952384/extended-historical-endnote-for-chapter-one-of
> 
> TL;DR, Dr. L.’s theories about homosexuality would not strike his real-life counterparts as particularly wacky (but his putting them into practice is a different story).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas goes to Group.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: Brief period-typical racial language. Details in endnotes.

“Had your chat with Dr. L.?” Richard asked, sitting down across from him. Thomas was in the smoking room, and had been wondering how long he’d manage to be left alone before someone came looking for him. He’d expected it to be Theo, though, who for most of the afternoon had herded him and Syl from one place to another, showing them things and introducing them to people. 

It might not have been so bad, if Syl had ever managed to shut up for a moment or two. 

“I did,” he said. 

“Surprised?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. When Thomas didn’t answer, he added, “I’d have warned you, but the good doctor likes to be the one to tell the new men.”

“Typical.” Almost nothing about this situation was _typical_ , but that was what you said in the Army when an officer said or did just about anything. 

“He’s all right, mostly,” Richard answered, which was what you said in the Army about an officer who wasn’t too much of a bastard. He leaned back and took out his cigarettes. “What did you get?”

“Hm?”

“Anything besides Newcomer’s Group?”

After moment’s consideration, Thomas said, “Not so far. I have to see him again next week, apparently.” He had been wondering whether that was a bad sign, and had even considered asking Theo, but had figured that if he did, there was a good chance of its making its way back to Dr. L. 

“Hm,” Richard said. “Did he say why?”

Not standard procedure, then. Thomas shook his head. 

“Might have something to do with that guard you punched, at The Clinic,” Richard suggested.

Bloody hell. “You heard about that.”

“Everybody’s heard about that. Syl gave us a dramatic re-enactment in the parlour earlier.”

“Lovely.”

“Oh, no, we’re all very impressed,” Richard assured him. “Is it true you knocked two of his teeth out?”

“I…don’t think so,” Thomas said. The rest of them had gotten him pinned down and injected him pretty quickly, so he couldn’t be sure. 

“He seemed to be hamming it up a bit, when he got to that part,” Richard said. “By the end of the week, you’ll probably have ripped the brute’s arm off and beaten him about the head and shoulders with it.”

“Wish somebody would,” Thomas noted. 

“Don’t we all.” 

He asked Thomas about his work, and revealed in turn that he’d been in service in and around London for most of his adult life, but had grown up in York. He also admitted, quite candidly in Thomas’s view, that he’d been picked up in a raid on a queer club. “The, ah, household I work for got me out—would have created a bit of a stir if I went to trial and the press got hold of where I worked—but…well.”

“What household was it?” Thomas asked.

“I can’t say,” Richard said primly. “That, along with my spell in The Clinic, was a condition of their keeping it all quiet.” He gave Thomas a confiding sort of look. “But I can beat your earl.”

A marquess or a duke, then. A horrifying thought occurred to him, and Thomas blurted out, “It wasn’t Phillip Crowborough, was it?”

“No,” Richard said, looking puzzled. Then, “Oh, is he—”

“As a three-pound note,” Thomas said. 

“Oh. Did _you_ work for him?”

“No.” Thomas looked away.

Richard winced. “Sorry.”

“It was before the war,” Thomas said.

About then, Theo _did_ come in to collect him, saying that it was nearly time to go in to dinner. 

Over the next few days, Thomas found out more about how the “community” worked, got to know the men who were in the ward with him, and managed not to strangle Syl. By the time his first Newcomer’s Group came around, he was beginning to feel as though he’d gotten his feet under him a bit. 

Only to have them promptly knocked out from under him again. The “Group” started reasonably enough, with about a dozen of them sitting in the Meeting Room—everyone from the new arrivals’ ward, two or three others (including Morrow, accompanied by Wilberforce), and Dr. L. and the priest. 

By now, Thomas knew better than to expect it to be the sort of harangue they occasionally got at The Clinic, about how vile and unnatural they all were, and how such wicked practices as they enjoyed would inevitably result in venereal disease, prison, or madness, but he wasn’t at all sure what to expect instead. 

Dr. L. started by reminding everyone that there were two _new_ newcomers in the group, causing everyone to look at Thomas and Syl for a moment, and explained for their benefit that the sessions usually started with, “A period of free discussion, before we move into the day’s topic. Who would like to start?”

After what seemed to Thomas an uncomfortably long silence, a man called Christopher, whose accent and clothes suggested Oxford or Cambridge, said, “My mother’s written again, all wailing and rending her garments, and asking if the doctors are _really_ certain there’s no hope for me. I’m really not sure what I can tell her.”

“Lie, mate,” advised Bill, who in another life could have been Christopher’s bit of rough. “Tell her you’re getting your psyche analyzed eight days a week, and the doc thinks that if you give it your all for two or three years, you might get somewhere.”

Thomas glanced at Dr. L. to see how he was taking this suggestion, but the doctor’s expression gave nothing away. 

“At least your mum still wants to talk to you,” Arthur, a Cockney by the sound of him, pointed out. 

“Because she hasn’t accepted the situation,” Christopher said. 

“Mine told the whole rest of the family I was dead as soon as I got arrested,” Arthur said. 

“We know,” muttered Morrow, who happened to be sitting next to Thomas. 

“Gentlemen,” said Dr. L., “let’s try and focus on Christopher’s concern for a moment, before we move on to related ones. “Does anyone have any thoughts about what he might do?”

There was a moment’s awkward silence, and James, a middle-aged man whose voice smacked of a minor public school, said, “I think Bill’s on to something, old chap. Give her a bit of hope.”

There was a murmur of mixed agreement and disagreement, which abruptly cut off when Father Timothy said, “Hm.” Everyone looked at him, and managing to look pleased and flattered by the attention, said, “I’ve found, when someone is being particularly _vexing_ , it often helps to seek a _charitable_ interpretation of his—or her—behavior. Christopher, do you suppose it might be the case that, when your mother asks about a cure for your condition, she’s really seeking some reassurance that you will be happy and well?”

Christopher looked skeptical. “I think she mostly wants me to be normal,” he said. “But…well, maybe. A bit.”

“Then you might respond, as it were, as if that ‘bit’ were the whole,” Father Timothy suggested. “I can’t condone _lying_ , Bill—” There was a bit of a chuckle at that— “But you could set aside the question of a cure, and tell her that you’re settling in well, that you’ve made some friends, perhaps a few reassuring details of your everyday life….”

Christopher said that he supposed he might try that, and then Dr. L. asked Arthur if he wanted to talk about _his_ mum, which he did, at some length. After that came a few gripes about work assignments and people leaving their socks lying about. The former, Thomas could have contributed to, since Syl’s version of tidying a room looked an awful lot like pirouetting about with a feather duster in his hand, while Thomas did all of the actual _work_ , but he held his peace. 

At the end of those, Syl stood up and declaimed, “I just wanted to say how much I _adore_ this place, and how _warm_ and _welcoming_ everyone has been.” 

He continued in this vein for some time, with hand gestures. When he finally wound down, Dr. L. said, “Thank you, Sylvester. I hope we can all remember that, while our community isn’t perfect, it does have certain advantages that can’t be found elsewhere.” 

Syl sat down again, looking pleased with himself, the revolting little suck-up. 

“Is there anyone else who wishes to speak?” the doctor asked. “Ben? You haven’t said anything.”

“No,” said Morrow. 

“Thomas?”

God damn it. “No,” was, obviously, the wrong answer. He’d learned a day or two ago that Morrow had arrived along with Richard, months ago, and the fact that he was still required to come to Newcomer’s Group suggested that his example was not one to emulate. Finally, he settled on, “Syl’s said it all, hasn’t he?”

That got him a wink and a wave from Syl, but Thomas supposed he at least hadn’t dug himself in any deeper. 

Thomas was just beginning to think that, if that was all there was to Group, it might not be so bad, when Dr. L. announced the day’s topic. “We’ll be continuing our discussion of literature today,” he announced. There were a few murmurs at that, and he continued, “I know that some of us found Plato to be hard going, but today’s author is more _recent_ , and so, I hope, more accessible. Father?”

Taking a book from under his chair, the reverend said, “Mr. Whitman—an American poet of the transcendentalist school, who left this world in 1892.” He then cleared his throat and began to read. “I celebrate myself and I sing myself….”

The poem went on with a bit of that sort of twaddle, but moved quickly into some pretty eyebrow-raising stuff, about kissing and “reaching round of arms,” and “stop this day and night with me, and you shall possess the origin of all poems.” 

Even if it _had_ been about woman, it would be a bit risqué, but the reverend went on to read, “Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean.” By the time he got to, “how you settled your head athwart my hips,” Thomas could feel his face burning. Even Syl looked shocked,

“Undrape!” Father Timothy read on. “You are not guilty to me, nor stale or discarded. I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no, and I am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.” He looked up from the book. “The poem goes on after that, but let’s pause here and discuss the first section.”

There was a moment of embarrassed silence. Finally, Arthur said, “Is _it_ legal in America, then?”

No need to specify which _it_ he meant. “No,” said Father Timothy. “Some of Whitman’s work was suppressed on grounds of obscenity, but the critics generally claimed that he wrote, sometimes, in the voice of a woman.”

“Never met a woman who’d say things like _that_ ,” muttered James. 

Thomas was glad he hadn’t been the one to say it, because Father Timothy asked him if he had a particular passage in mind. 

James looked everywhere but at the rest of them for a moment, and finally said, “Bit about the _hips_ , for one.”

“Ah, yes. One of the more sensual passages,” the reverend said, and then _read it again_. 

“He says about his beard,” pointed out Bill. “So he can’t be writing a woman then.” 

“But he doesn’t actually say it’s a man, doing the…tongue-plunging,” Christopher said. 

“Of course it’s a bloke,” Bill said. “You ever hear of a women ripping off some man’s clothes in a field or wherever it is they are?”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Christopher protested, at about the same time that Arthur said, “I have.”

“Let’s talk about the setting,” Father Timothy broke in. “What does Whitman tell us about where this moment takes place?”

There was a bit of a pause in the discussion at that point, and Thomas—on the grounds that the question might be the least embarrassing one that would be asked—said, “He talks about the grass, so I guess they’re outdoors. And doesn’t he say something about leaves and ants and a fence?”

“He does,” Father Timothy said, and read that bit. “Why, do you suppose, does he place this blatantly sensual scene in a natural, outdoor setting?”

“You can see anybody coming from a long way off, if you’re in a field,” Arthur pointed out, to general amusement. 

When the laughter had died down, Bill raised his hand—as though he were in a schoolroom—and said, “He’s trying to say like it’s part of nature, innit? What they’re getting up to.”

“Precisely,” said the reverend. “And, indeed, he goes a bit further than that.” He read again, “And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own, and I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own.’ He is suggesting that what they are, as you say, _getting up to_ , is not only natural, but _holy_.”

Pandemonium. “One at a time, please, gentlemen,” Dr. L. broke in. 

They all shut up, and Father Timothy called on Christopher, who said, a bit accusingly, “You can’t actually believe that.”

Bill leaned over to him. “You weren’t here for the Bible-study one, were you?”

The reverend side-stepped the question of whether he personally agreed that acts of gross indecency were holy, and instead read a few lines from the part of the poem that they hadn’t got to yet, about how he believed in the flesh and its appetites, and that he was divine inside and out. “Whitman’s views on this matter are, of course, surprising—perhaps even more so to his fellow countrymen, descended from Puritans as they are—but we would do well to remember that our Savior chose to walk among us in the body of a man, and to be born from the body of a woman, and that He created, as Whitman says, the flesh and the appetites. If all of nature is the book of the Almighty, then the human body and the human mind are, at least, a chapter of it.” 

“Normal ones, though,” somebody said. 

“Hm,” said Father Timothy. “Well, if God is omnipotent and inerrant, and that he knows and created each one of us, which is the more radical proposition: that when he created you, he made a mistake—or that he didn’t?”

Shocked silence, followed by an explosion of argument. This went on for over an hour, and when Thomas queued up with the rest to collect a cup of tea and a biscuit, he felt rather like he’d just had an HE shell go off an arm’s length away from him. Same sort of ringing in the ears. 

He’d have liked to tuck himself into the out-of-the-way corner with the aspidistra, but by the time he’d got his tea, Morrow and Wilberforce were already ensconced there. 

So he was left standing awkwardly beside the tea-trolley, and, unsurprisingly, wasn’t left in peace long. “Bit of a rummy topic for your first Group,” Christopher said, apologetically. 

“I’d wondered if it was always like that,” Thomas admitted.

“Most of them aren’t quite so steamy,” he answered. “My first was the one on Freud—not nearly so shocking.”

With a glance to make sure that Dr. L. was at the other end of the room, he asked, “What else do they talk about?” 

“Oh, let’s see, there’s a sort of medical one, and one about the laws around the world. One about what the Bible says about men like us—which is less than you’d think, given the way some people carry on. Father Tim does that one, too. Oh, and Dr. R. does this sort of anthropology one, about what all the primitive cultures think about…you know. Apparently, among certain tribes of Red Indians, they believe our sort make the best medicine men.” 

“Huh,” said Thomas. 

“Let’s see, there’s the Plato one, had that last week. And I’ve heard Dr. R. has another one, about how we fit in with Mr. Darwin’s ideas about natural selection—I haven’t done that one yet, but once they’ve been through all the topics, they start over again at the beginning, so no matter where you come in, you get to all of them eventually. Like at the cinema.” 

“I see,” said Thomas. Well, he’d _heard_ of Freud; that might be a bit of a start. 

#

That evening, at dinner, Richard contrived to sit next to Thomas, and said, “I can tell by your pole-axed expression that today’s Group was the Whitman one.”

Thomas thought he’d been hiding it rather well, and gave Richard his best affronted look.

“Not really—Morrow told me.”

“Out loud?” Thomas wondered. 

“Yes, and I was so proud of him,” Richard said. “What did you think of the poetry?”

“It was…interesting,” Thomas said diplomatically. “Apparently Syl’s baggsied the library’s copy of the book.” 

“Oh,” said Richard, diffidently. “I’ve got a copy, if you’d like to borrow it.”

Thomas considered whether it was worth explaining that he knew Syl had it because he’d been fluttering around with it, not because he’d _looked_. 

Besides, he wasn’t exactly _averse_ to the idea of having a look at it. “Hm,” he said, noncommittally.

“Perhaps we could talk about it, after you’ve read it.”

 _Really, now._ What was he going to do next, ask Thomas in to see his etchings? “I’m not sure what sort of boy you think I am, Mr. Ellis,” Thomas said primly. 

“Oh, well,” Richard said. “In that case, could I walk you home from church this coming Sunday, Mr. Barrow?”

Thomas decided to play along. “I’ll have to see what my mother says.”

“Of course,” Richard said. Then, dropping the pretence, he asked, “Does your mother know…?”

“God, no. She’s dead.” 

“Oh.” Richard considered, for a moment. “Mine—well, she’s got some idea where I am. Now, you know Lawrence Chessman?” 

Thomas shook his head. 

“He’s one of the cricketers,” Richard said. “ _His_ mother came to his _wedding_.”

Thomas frowned. “What, you mean, _here_?”

Richard nodded. 

“Blimey.” 

#

A day or two later, Thomas found himself walking down to the village with Theo and Syl. Syl was lugging a sizeable valise, and a hatbox, because he was going to the dress rehearsal for the upcoming concert. In addition to his own song, he’d also been given parts in several sketches, and from what Thomas could gather, would not be wearing men’s clothing for any of them. 

“All _small_ parts, of course,” Syl was saying, “since much of the show was planned before we arrived, but every role is important! _Thomas_ , darling, are you sure you don’t want to take part? I’m sure we could squeeze you in somewhere.”

“I’m sure,” Thomas said, but might as well not have for all the notice Syl took.

“Can you dance? The gentleman they have opposite me in the debutante ball sketch has two left feet; I expect he’d be _delighted_ to have a last-minute substitute.”

If it meant not having to dance with Syl, he was probably right. “No, thank you.”

“Are you more interested in dramatic roles? There isn’t much to choose from in this show, but for the next one, I’m thinking a _reprise_ of my scenes from Shakespeare—performed to great acclaim in rest camps all over the Western Front. Do you fancy yourself more a Romeo, or a Macbeth?”

If Romeo was the poisoning scene, maybe. “Neither.” 

“Oh, I know—Hamlet!”

Thomas chose not to dignify that with a response. 

“In the War, we did the ‘get thee to a nunnery’ scene, but if you’d like to _stretch_ your _wings_ , we could do Ophelia’s funeral. Oh! Or—”

“Syl,” Theo interrupted, “I don’t think Thomas is interested in acting.”

Syl pouted, which at least shut him up for about thirty seconds. 

After dropping him off at the parish hall for the rehearsal, Thomas and Theo continued up what passed for a high street. Besides the pub, there was a greengrocer’s, a butcher’s, a tailor shop, and a place that seemed to be a sort of permanent jumble sale. They went into the tobacconist’s, which Theo said sold a bit of everything—Thomas wanted some hair oil, and possibly some fresh cigarettes. 

Theo was right about the shop. In addition to the cigarettes and pipe tobacco, the shelves were crowded with all manner of dry groceries—sugar and salt, packets of tea, tins of milk and fruit—cakes of soap and tins of tooth powder, candles, playing cards, crockery, pots and pans, razors and combs, socks and underclothes, and one shelf given over to animals carved out of what appeared to be driftwood. From the ceiling hung a tin hip-bath and a variety of agricultural implements. Behind the counter stood a pleasant-looking man of about Thomas’s age, with the empty sleeve of his coat pinned up. “Hullo, Theo,” he said. “This one of the new chaps?”

“It is,” he said. “Thomas Barrow, Peter Fitzroy; Peter, Thomas.” Once they’d said their nice-to-meet-yous, Theo added, “Thomas was in the RAMC during the war, as well.”

“Were you?” Peter asked. “Er—what rank?”

“Sergeant, by the end,” Thomas answered, wondering why it mattered.

“Oh, good. There are a few of us—we usually get together for drinks on Saturday afternoons. You should come—or,” he added, glancing at Theo, “does Tully count as a responsible member of the community?”

“As long as Jessop’s there, it should be all right,” Theo said. “If Thomas wants to go.”

Theo said it casually, but Thomas wondered if his emphatic refusal to consider amateur dramatics was giving him a Morrow-like reputation for failing to take part. Drinks sounded relatively painless, so he said, “All right. I don’t think there’s anywhere I’m supposed to be then.”

Peter gave him the details, adding, “It’s very casual—just make sure you bring your liver. Now, anything I can get for you?”

Thomas asked about his hair oil, which it turned out was one thing the tiny, overstuffed shop did _not_ have. Peter recommended another brand, but it was one that Thomas had tried before and didn’t like. “Not to worry,” Peter said cheerfully, taking a pencil from behind his ear. “We can order in anything you like. You might even get it on the next supply boat, if they have it over on the mainland.” 

He wrote down what Thomas wanted, and told him he could stop in any time after the boat had come to check if his order had been filled. “Just give us a couple of hours after the boat’s been unloaded, to get everything unpacked and sorted.”

Thomas didn’t need to ask how he’d know when that would be. He’d been here for one Boat Day since that of his own arrival, and knew that, not only was it the most-anticipated event of the island’s weekly round, but anyone at the Main House who had nothing better to do was expected to go down to the wharf and help with carrying up the supplies.

The shop _did_ have Thomas’s brand of cigarettes—fortunately, since he smoked three on the way back up to the Main House, where it was now time for his second appointment with Dr. L.

The doctor was seated behind his desk, as before, and gestured Thomas into the chair opposite, as before. “Well,” he said. “Now that you’ve had some time to get settled in, what do you think of our community?”

Thomas had given some thought to his answer to this question, as he’d been asked some version of it by at least half of the people he’d met. “Well,” he said, “It’s nice, sir. Very, ah, normal.” He’d thought that was a good answer, since the doctor had said something similar himself last time, but he made a note of it, so perhaps not. “There seems to be a great deal to do,” he added. 

He’d hoped it would be a neutral enough remark to forestall any follow-up questions, but Dr. L. said, “Indeed. Are there any activities which particularly appeal to you?”

 _Damn, damn, damn._ “Well, sir,” he said, noticing as he said it that this was the second remark in a row that he’d prefaced with a _well_ , “I’m told there’s cricket, but that’s just about finished for the season. And, ah, I’m supposed to meet with some blokes who were in the RAMC, have a pint, sort of thing.” 

“Oh, yes—Sergeant Tully’s lads.” He made a note, and asked, very casually, “What do you make of Mr. Tanner?”

“He seems all right, sir,” Thomas said warily, wondering what Syl had said. Or had the doctor noticed that Thomas didn’t like him much? “Maybe not my first choice for someone to go on a walking tour with, but I suppose it takes all sorts.”

“Why’s that?”

“Hm?”

“That he wouldn’t be your first choice?”

 _Because he’s a bloody screaming quean_. “Well,” damn it, “I…like a bit of peace and quiet, now and then.” 

“He is very lively,” Dr. L. allowed. “Have you found it difficult, sharing living quarters with other men?” Before Thomas could begin to wonder why he was asking _that_ , the doctor added, “As you like peace and quiet.”

Oh. Managing not to say _well_ , Thomas answered, “I got used to it in the war—and our room’s a good deal more comfortable than a lot of the billets we had in France, so….”

“I should hope so…what was your war like?”

 _Damn, damn, damn_. There was, Thomas had heard, a War Neurosis Group, and the very last thing on Earth that he wanted was to end up in it. “Well,” he said slowly. “I joined up right at the beginning—the village doctor, at Downton, helped me get a place in the RAMC. I thought that would be…well, I thought it would suit me better than fighting.”

“And did it?”

“Well,” _damn_ , “I ended up carrying stretchers at the Front, which wasn’t…what I expected.” He waited for another question, but Dr. L. just looked at him, and eventually he babbled on, “I figured I’d be in, you know, a hospital or something, behind the lines.” Damn it again, he hadn’t meant to say that. Or was it all right if they knew you were a coward, if they already knew you were a queer? “I mean, I knew it was going to be awful. Never fell for that ‘jolly adventure and we’ll all be home by tea-time’ rubbish. I knew it would be bad, and I figured they’d get round to conscription sooner or later, so I thought I’d go in while I still had a choice about it, and I figured….” What was it he’d said to old Clarkson, back when he’d had no idea what he was letting himself in for? “Helping people, making them better, was important work.”

“Of course,” said Dr. L. “But you found yourself at the Front after all.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And it was unpleasant.” 

It came out more sharply than Thomas had intended, and he figured he’d just doomed himself to more questions about the war, but Dr. L. just said, “Very well. Let’s talk about your time at—what was it called? Downton Abbey.”

He looked expectantly at Thomas, and, when no question materialized, Thomas finally said, “What about it, sir?”

“You were there for some time.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s start with something easy. What did you like about it?”

“Sir?”

“Why did you stay there for so long? Return after the war?”

 _Because they paid me, and it wasn’t the bloody Front_. “Well,” he said, on purpose this time, to stall for time. “It was…familiar, I suppose. Like you said, I’d been there a long time.”

“Ah.” 

“The, uh, the postwar employment situation, you know,” he added, borrowing a phrase he’d picked up from a newspaper. “All the men coming back, and households having got used to doing with fewer staff. There weren’t a lot of places, and Lord Grantham needed a valet, so…it just made sense.”

“So you…fell into it, as it were, rather than choosing it?”

 _Fell_? It had taken weeks of solid scheming to get that job! “I suppose, sir.” 

“I see. So, what made you decide to leave?”

 _Decide_? “Sir?”

“The, ah, incident with the footman was precipitated by your impending departure, wasn’t it?”

Oh. “Yes, sir. Uh, his lordship’s old valet was coming back.” Realizing that Dr. L. didn’t know this part of the story—and that it might distract him for a moment from asking any further questions about _Thomas_ , he added, “He’d been in prison, sir, for murdering his wife. But, ah, they found out he hadn’t done it, so he got out.”

Unfortunately, Dr. L. did not pursue this lurid conversational red herring. “So it wasn’t your choice to leave?”

“Not really, no.”

“What did you think about that?”

He thought it was bloody unfair, being pushed out in favor of a convicted murderer, is what he thought. “Sir?”

#

“I see,” Edmund said, for what felt like the hundredth time in the session. Like every other topic he’d suggested, the question of Mr. Barrow’s family prompted nothing more than a dry recital of facts: his father was a clockmaker and his mother had been in service before she married; he’d been the second-youngest of five surviving children, with the youngest being the only girl, five years younger than he. The siblings were all married and, as far as he knew, normal. The parents were deceased, and he didn’t hear from his siblings apart from the occasional letter at Christmas—was, in fact, unsure which of his brothers had survived the war. “And what about your relationship with your parents?” he asked.

The answer, as Edmund could have predicted, was a mildly affronted, “Sir?”

“Were you close with them, for example?”

“Well, there were a lot of us.” 

Edmund made a note—five children was not a particularly large number, for a working-class family; coming from Mr. Barrow, that almost amounted to a statement of emotion. 

“And Mother was ill a lot,” he added.

That was interesting—there was a school of thought that congenital homosexuals were likely to arise from neurotic and sickly stock. “What sort of illness?”

“She didn’t talk about it.”

 _Quelle surprise_. He wondered if the Barrow family had ever talked about anything. That thought—and perhaps some therapeutic instinct—led him to ask, “Can you think of a time when your parents did, so to speak, take particular notice of you? Set you out from the crowd?”

A series of almost imperceptible expressions passed across Mr. Barrow’s face. “Not really. I mean, Mum would make a bit of an effort if any of us were ill, but—” He stopped abruptly. 

“But?” Edmund prompted.

“I suppose,” Mr. Barrow said, with the barest hint of accusation in his tone, “you mean that business with Roland, in the coal shed.”

And yes, Edmund realized, that was _precisely_ what he had meant—the matter had slipped his mind, but it was right there in his notes from when they’d talked at The Clinic. Mr. Barrow’s first experience as a lover of men, kissing a neighbor boy in the coal shed. He hadn’t mentioned at the time that his family had known about it—but then, Edmund hadn’t asked. Mirroring Mr. Barrow’s detached demeanour, he said, “Yes, that.”

Mr. Barrow looked away.

“How did they react?”

“Well, they weren’t exactly best pleased, were they?”

Now _that_ was an emotion. But almost as quickly as it had arisen, Mr. Barrow visibly reined himself in, and added, “Sir.”

“Yes, that’s fairly typical,” Edmund said—Mrs. Chessman notwithstanding. “And how was your relationship with them affected, going forward?”

Looking away again, Mr. Barrow said, “Wasn’t, really. I went into service just after.”

Carefully concealing his excitement, Edmund jotted down, _Neighbour boy—footman—compulsion to repeat?_ ?? “I see.” Mentally, he tried out a few ways of broaching the next question, and concluded that Mr. Barrow would see through any of them in a heartbeat. “I wonder,” he said, “if you’ve noticed the similarity to the circumstances that brought you here?” 

Expecting a firm denial that any such parallel existed, Edmund was already preparing to list the points of comparison when Mr. Barrow said, flatly, “Yes.”

Momentarily rocked back on his metaphorical heels, Edmund said, “Hm?”

“Now that you mention it,” Mr. Barrow said, expressionless, “I see what you mean.”

 _Well_. That was quite something. “And would you…like to talk about it?”

Mr. Barrow appeared to carefully consider his options before saying, “Not particularly, no.”

Edmund decided to quit while he was ahead. “Very well. That’s nearly our time for today. Is there anything else you’d like to talk about, before we finish?”

Another period of deliberation. “No.”

They had a few minutes left, but Edmund had a feeling that he could use a little extra time to write up the session notes. “All right, then, why don’t we stop here for now,” he said, and considered whether to schedule another session. He’d like to build on the small bit of progress they’d made today, but there was nothing to suggest that the case was a particularly urgent one. Mr. Barrow was participating in Group and daily Meetings—if only just enough to not be conspicuously taciturn—and seemed on his way to making a friend or two, with Mr. Ellis and Mr. Norridge. 

It might also be interesting to see how he responded to Dr. R., in Group. Perhaps he’d have an easier time establishing a therapeutic _rapport_ —Edmund doubted it, but you never knew. “And I’ll be in touch about your next session,” he finally said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Note: Racial Language: Racial language: Someone refers to “Red Indians,” in a neutral/positive context. Indigenous Americans today do not all agree about preferred terminology; however, that is definitely not it. However, it is the most polite term that people in this setting would have been likely to know. (And, just a heads-up, later on we’re going to see it used extensively by a character who, by his own lights, admires the people in question.) 
> 
> Historical notes: 
> 
> Literary note: The poet discussed in this chapter’s Group session is Walt Whitman, and yes, these are real quotes from “Song of Myself.” Whitman’s work attracted controversy for sensuality bordering on obscenity, but, as Father Timothy says in the chapter, critics during Whitman’s lifetime generally chose not to see anything gay in it—but gay readers were a different story. Some Whitman scholars today still dispute that he was, personally, gay; however, Oscar Wilde, who met—and kissed—while touring America, said that he was, which is good enough for me. 
> 
> In addition to his poetry, Whitman worked as a printer, typesetter, and journalist, and volunteered as a nurse during the American Civil War. 
> 
> Geographical Note: 
> 
> There wasn’t room in the Chapter One notes to discuss the Island itself, so I’ll do it here. It’s located in the Hebrides, a group of islands west of Scotland. The Hebrides vary a great deal in size and population; there are about 50 inhabited islands, and somewhere around a hundred uninhabited ones. (The total varies from source to source owing to disagreement over where to draw the line between “small island” and “big rock in the ocean.”) The area has been inhabited since the late Stone Age, and some islands that are now uninhabited, or only barely inhabited, had relatively substantial populations into historic times. 
> 
> The Island of the Gays has gone unnamed in the story because—even leaving out the Sanitarium aspect—it doesn’t exactly correspond to any real-life island. However, I did turn to one real-life island most often as a model for the Island’s history and geography, and that’s Scalpay-Skye, in the Inner Hebrides. (There’s another Scalpay, Scalpay-Harris, in the Outer Hebrides.) It’s currently privately owned and home to only the family that owns it plus 3 holiday rental properties, so there’s a website with a lot of pictures that you can look at if you want to get a sense the landscape, flora and fauna, etc. 
> 
> In Tudor times, Scalpay-Skye, and other islands like it, had a much larger population, supporting a village or two and some farms. It changed hands a few times in the Victorian-to-Edwardian period. Somewhere in there, it lost its inhabitants. It isn’t clear when or why, but the history of the region sketches in some broad outlines.
> 
> Many of the larger Hebridean islands are what’s known as “marginal for agriculture,” which basically means that, with a hell of a lot of work and a bit of luck when it comes to the weather, you can just about get a crop out of the ground, but you’re never going to make a comfortable living out of it. (Quite a bit of mainland Scotland was the same way.) Indigenous Hebrideans would have eked out a living by combining a variety of strategies—farming, fishing, herding sheep and cattle, making cloth out of the sheep’s wool, and harvesting seaweed for iodine. 
> 
> Keeping sheep is actually the thing that the Hebrides (and the Scottish highlands) are best for—as long as you have enough land to spread the animals out. In the mid- 18th century, much of Scotland came under the control of English landlords, and they quickly figured out that if you get rid of most of the people, you can fit in more sheep, and actually stand a chance at turning a profit. That was the Highland Clearances, and they went on until about the middle of the 19th century. 
> 
> The reason this is important is because that’s how Dr. L.’s fictional ancestor would have come to own the fictional Island. Some places, once the traditional inhabitants were kicked out, ended up to still not be able to sustain enough sheep to turn a profit, and that’s when the owners would have started casting about for something else to do with the place, or for somebody to unload it onto. Queen Victoria made the Scottish highlands a trendy place to visit—and, today, tourism is one of the major industries in the Hebrides—so that’s how I imagine Dr. L.’s ancestor got the idea of picking up an island that was going cheap and opening a resort hotel on it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas goes out for drinks with the boys, walks home from church with a man, and goes to the village concert with another man. He’s more popular than he’s ever been in his life, but will he ruin it all by reverting to his old ways?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: Bit of sexism/transphobia--details in endnotes.

“I bet Wilberforce would like it,” Richard said, in the tone of one delivering a trump card. “Little animals to chase, smelly things to roll in. Hullo, Thomas,” he added.

“Wilberforce isn’t interested in that sort of rubbish,” Morrow said. It being one of the rare warm days on the island, they were sitting on the terrace, Wilberforce nosing about in the decorative plantings. 

Lighting a cigarette, Thomas joined them. He was enjoying a brief period on his own recognizance, Theo having gone down to the village to fetch Syl back, and it seemed best to remain in public view. “What doesn’t Wilberforce like?” he asked. 

“Anything, apparently,” Richard said. “Mr. Braceridge and the vicar are organizing a camp-out.” 

Oh. “Why?” Thomas asked.

“Because Mr. Braceridge used to be a Scoutmaster, and the rest of us like to humor him now and then,” Richard explained. Correctly interpreting Thomas’s nonplussed expression, he added, “He was done up over a misunderstanding with an undercover policeman in the gents’ conveniences at Hyde Park—nothing to do with the kiddies.”

That was all right, then. “Sounds dire,” Thomas said, thinking of the frequent rain and near-freezing temperatures. 

“It’s not that bad, really. The hotel used to do fishing and shooting excursions—there’s a sort of bunkhouse in the forest, next to a stream, just down the hill from the loch. If you’re lucky, it rains the whole time and you just sit inside playing cards and occasionally pretending to listen to Mr. Braceridge talk about fungi or knots.” To Morrow, he added, “I’ll even go again, if that helps.”

“Why would it?” Morrow asked. 

Richard looked a bit crestfallen. “Well, if you fancy doing Newcomer’s Group a fourth time, just keep on like you’re doing.” 

Morrow, Thomas had gathered, had arrived at the same time that Richard had, but was still in Newcomer’s Group because he’d not managed to convince Dr. L. that he’d adjusted to the community. 

With a sigh, Morrow said, “I know you’re trying to help.”

“Good,” said Richard. 

#

 _You fucking prick_ , Thomas thought, barely breaking stride as he took in the “closed” sign on the door of the pub. It was Saturday afternoon, and he was sure he’d come at the right time—the bastard at the shop had written it down. 

Resisting the impulse to check the bit of paper—someone could have been _watching_ —Thomas affected the expression of one out for an aimless afternoon walk, and crossed the street to look in the window of the jumble-shop, which was, of course, also shut.

He was contemplating the reasons that could possibly lead someone not only to _purchase_ a necktie with little horseshoes on it, but to bring it to a remote island, when the door to the pub flew open. “Thomas, are you coming in?” Fitzroy asked.

Crossing the street again, Thomas gave an explanatory nod toward the sign, and said, “I thought I must’ve got the time wrong.”

“Oh,” Fitzroy said, taking a look at it. “Right, this is officially a private party. Apparently, the mainland authorities are willing to overlook a great deal where we’re concerned, but _licensing hours_ is where they draw the line.” Propping the door open with his shoulder, he gestured Thomas inside.

The pub was small and smoky, but very clean, with a bar stretching the length of the room. Around this were gathered about half a dozen men, who all went silent when Thomas entered. “Right,” said Fitzroy. “Here’s the new chap—Thomas. Thomas, that’s Michael, Tall Dave, Eddie, Frank, Joe, Jessop, and Sergeant Tully.”

“Nice to meet you,” Thomas said, automatically and a bit stupidly. 

The one standing behind the bar—a bulky man, not over-tall—said, “You’re no’ a fucking Rupert, are you?”

That explained why Fitzroy had asked about his rank. “No.”

“All right, then.” He pulled a pint and shoved it in Thomas’s direction. 

He was allowed to get about halfway into it before being subjected to a friendly but intense interrogation about what unit he’d been with, where he’d been stationed, who his commanding officers had been, and whether he’d run into this person or that. He grasped—after a few moments of abject alarm—that the point of this questioning was to turn up any mutual acquaintances or shared experiences, but it was still a bit nerve-wracking. 

“Flanders and the fucking Somme?” asked Tully. “You were really in for it.” 

“Don’t I know it,” Thomas said. 

“Where’d they send you after that?” Tall Dave asked. “Arras?”

“No, I caught a packet in the Somme, got Home Service after.”

Once they’d established that Downton Village Hospital was too small and out-of-the-way for any of them to have heard of it, the conversation moved on. Thomas finished his first pint, and was immediately given a second—the barman seemed to have a sixth sense for an empty glass, grabbing and refilling Thomas’s without even looking his way, much less pausing in the expletive-laden story he was telling.

“So you were in service?” Fitzroy asked. “In Yorkshire?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you ever make it down to London?”

“Just when the family’s daughters had their Seasons,” Thomas said. “His lordship’s sister lives in London, and doesn’t mind putting them up, so they’d only open the house if the whole family was going.” He said that so that Fitzroy wouldn’t think Thomas had worked for a family that _didn’t own_ a London house. 

“I thought I’d remember if I’d seen you around,” Fitzroy said, with just a hint of a wink. 

Around _where_? “Right,” Thomas said vaguely. 

“Well, you’re here now.” 

“Yeah.” _We’re here because we’re here because we’re here_ , as they’d said in the trenches. 

Fitzroy gave him a startled look, and it was in that moment that it dawned on Thomas that he was, perhaps, actually meant to _be glad about it._

“Something wrong?” asked Fitzroy.

“No.” He lit a cigarette, to give his hands something to do. Granted, the place was better than The Clinic, or prison, but…. “How long have you been here?”

“Couple of years,” Fitzroy said. “Most of us came around the end of the War.” He gestured vaguely to indicate the group. 

“And….” Thomas trailed off, unsure what he wanted to ask, much less what he _could_ ask. Not _You actually like it here?_ Nor _Have you stopped noticing this place is completely mad_?

“What?”

“Nothing.” 

He had a feeling, though, that the answer hadn’t been too convincing, both from Fitzroy’s expression, and from the fact that Tully stuck a glass of whiskey in front of him and said, “Here, lad, see if that helps.”

Helps with what, he didn’t specify, but Tall Dave—or possibly Eddie—asked, “How come the rest of us don’t get one of those?”

“Because you don’t fucking need one,” Tully informed him. 

Thomas was slightly stung by the implication that he _did_ , but wasn’t one to pass up a free drink, and he _was_ a bit more relaxed after having downed it. 

In fact, at some point—perhaps after the second refill, or maybe the third—he found himself explaining the circumstances of his departure from Downton Abbey. 

“Now, I understand they served together in South Africa or whatever, but the man is a convicted murderer.” He gestured with his glass. “And not just an ordinary murderer, a…is there a word for a man who murders his wife? Like ‘patricide,’ only it’s a wife?”

There was a brief murmur at this, and Frank said, “Marricide, maybe?”

“It wasn’t his _mother_ ,” Thomas said. 

“That’s matricide,” Frank put in. 

“Come to think of it, his mother died, and left him a packet, about the same time, so who knows?”

Fitzroy asked, “What’s he doing back on the job, if he’s a convicted murderer?”

“Some—twaddle about him not having actually done it,” Thomas said dismissively. “I’m just saying, if I’d even been _suspected_ of killing me wife, I’d have been out on my arse faster than you can say ‘knife.’ But noooooooo, Mr. Bates can’t possibly have killed his wife, never mind his signature in the poison book and a letter in her own ’and saying she feared his temper.”

“So… _did_ he kill his wife?” Eddie asked.

“How should I know? All I know is, he was sentenced to hang, then they let him out of nick, and everyone’s welcoming him back with open arms. Meanwhile, they think I might’ve nicked a bottle of wine back before the war, so they didn’t even think about giving me my place back until I’d held the whole bloody house together when the lot of them were down with Spanish flu.”

“Fucking toffs,” said Tully, and poured another measure into Thomas’s glass. 

Somebody nudged Fitzroy. “Tell him your thing.”

“You’ll love this,” Fitzroy said. “The first day of the war, my employer dragged all of us down to the recruiting office and made us sign up. As his contribution to the war effort.”

“Anybody else make it back alive?” Frank asked.

“Not that I know of,” Fitzroy answered. 

Things got even more cheerful from then on. At some point, Tully decided that they _all_ needed whiskey now, and when the group finally dispersed, Thomas found himself staggering up to the Main House with Frank—propping each other up, more or less, although Frank was a bit too short to make a good crutch—and telling the story about the time the bloke carrying the other end of the stretcher caught a packet right between the eyes. 

“He was one of those, you know, ‘if the bullet’s got your name on it, it’s got your name on it’ blokes. You know. Was banging on about it when they shot him.” Thomas stopped for a moment to contemplate the moon, and also to make sure that he wasn’t about to vomit. “Guess it had ’is name on it. That’s when I—” He stopped himself, just in time. 

“Huh?” asked Frank—who was, if anything, drunker than Thomas. 

“Nuthin.” 

When he made it to the house, Theo took one look at him and poured him into bed, taking off his shoes and necktie and helpfully leaving a glass of water and a basin within reach.

Fortunately, Thomas made it through the night without having to make use of the latter, but he woke up in a predictably delicate state. 

“Someone had an exciting evening,” Syl observed as he attempted to shave.

“Get bent,” Thomas told him.

“Already am, darling.” 

Thomas wondered if he could get away with going back to bed. 

Probably not, he decided, and made his way carefully down to the dining room, where he breakfasted tentatively on a single slice of dry toast, and kept well clear of the kippers. Theo turned up with a cup of mint tea, which helped a bit, and went into the next room for Morning Meeting feeling as though the day just might be potentially survivable. 

Last Sunday, Theo had taken charge of Morning Meeting—Father Timothy having other responsibilities—but this time, he just sat next to Thomas, and made no move to get things started, even though they were a minute or two past time. “We waiting for somebody?” Thomas asked.

“Dr. R.’s doing the meeting. Supposedly.”

Thomas hadn’t set eyes on Dr. L.’s assistant since the journey here—a circumstance that now seemed fortunate. Perhaps, having only seen him drugged nearly insensible, the doctor wouldn’t notice that there was anything amiss with him now. 

A few minutes later—by which time the crowd had gotten noticeably restless—in came Frank, looking about as worse for wear as Thomas felt. “Right,” he said, making his way to the remaining empty seat in the circle. “Since we’ll be getting one later, anybody mind if we dispense with the prayer and the sing-song?”

While everyone else was saying they didn’t mind, Thomas clutched Theo’s arm. “Who’s that?”

“Dr. R.,” Theo said. 

Thomas had a split second or so to wonder who the man on the train had been, then, before being struck by the larger implications of this news. “Fuck me blind.” 

The meeting started, but Thomas couldn’t have said what went on in it, even if the information had been demanded of him at gunpoint. He was too busy trying to remember everything that he’d said, and done, and _said_ the day before. 

He had, at least, managed not to say anything about how he’d gotten the whacking great hole in the middle of his hand. But he’d said quite a bit else that he wasn’t keen to have Dr. L.—or _Frank_ —picking over. Nor to be called to account on the many things he’d left out of the version of events he’d offered to Dr. L. 

This was all Fitzroy’s fault. He should have at least had the decency to warn Thomas that there was a psychiatrist present. 

The meeting wrapped up pretty quickly—you could say that much for _Frank_ , even if he was a sneak—and Thomas skipped the tea-trolley to slip outside for a smoke. 

He got about halfway through the cigarette—and beginning to regret it, given the perilous state of his digestion—before he found out that his departure hadn’t been quite as unobtrusive as he had hoped. 

“Morning,” said Frank, with excessive casualness, as he picked out a patch of wall to lean against and lit a cigarette of his own. 

Thomas glared at him. 

“Right,” Frank said, blowing out smoke. “First off, Tully has promised to ban me from the pub for life if I tell Dr. L. about anything that happens at RAMC drinks, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Well. “Who said I was worried about it?” Thomas took a careful drag of his cigarette. “I thought he had a strict no-officers policy.”

“He overlooks it on account of I’m not a fucking Rupert.” 

He certainly didn’t sound it—with an accent like that, they’d not have let him so much as muck out the stables at Downton. 

“I know them from the War,” Frank—Dr. R.—added. “1916, I’d just qualified—finished my medical training—so naturally the Army sent me to a dressing station in the fucking Somme, where my brother officers made me about as welcome as a dose of the clap. Tully was Wardmaster there. Him and Jessop looked out for me.” 

“Good for you.” Nobody had looked out for Thomas in the war. Or ever.

“It was,” Frank agreed, either missing or ignoring the bitterness with which Thomas said it. “They’re both stand-up blokes, and they like a clever working-class lad, which there’s not many that do.”

Some people just had all the luck, didn’t they? “That so,” Thomas said flatly.

“I think you know it is.” He flicked his cigarette-end away. “Fitz ought to have warned you, but we don’t get many new blokes at the RAMC drinks do. New-new blokes, I mean. Most of the gang either know Tully and Jessop from the War, or knew Fitz from the London crowd before the War. Or both.”

Nice for some, Thomas thought, flicking away his own cigarette. “Yeah,” he said. “Well.” He was saved from having to come up with anything else to say by some of the others coming out the doors, on their way to church. “Better shift it,” he said, and slipped into the crowd, without waiting for a response.

Church on the island was _exactly like_ church anywhere else in Britain, and a marked improvement over church parades during the War, in that you got to sit down. It was, however, a bit more difficult to slip into the semi-somnolent state that had gotten Thomas through so many church services at Downton, when the same priest who was currently droning on about brotherly love had been talking about a completely different kind of love a few days before, at Group. 

He still managed it, though, and by the time they regrouped in the parish hall for tea and biscuits, Thomas felt marginally better-rested. As at Downton, the whole village was there—the island’s facilities apparently not extending as far as any dissenting religious establishments—and, catching sight of the gentleman from the journey here, he asked Theo, “If Frank is Dr. L.’s assistant, who’s that one?”

Theo glanced at him. “Dr. Hartley.” 

“How many of them are there?”

“He’s just a regular doctor,” Theo answered. “And Dr. Lewis, there—” He indicated the white-haired gentleman who had done the reading during the service—“Is a doctor of divinity. He used to do the church services, but he was technically defrocked, so he gave it up when Father Timothy came.” 

“So it’s just the two psychiatrists, then?”

“Yes.” He gave Thomas a sidelong look. “You don’t have to worry about them. They’re nothing like the ones at The Clinic.”

“I know that.” It was beyond even Thomas’s habitual suspicion to think that Dr. L and Dr. R. could be doing anything like what had gone on at The Clinic, and nobody give any sign of it. But that didn’t mean he wanted them _knowing things_ about him. 

“Well, then,” said Theo, as if that ought to prove something.

“Our Frank get you home all right, then, lad?” said a voice from behind Thomas’s shoulder.

He turned to see Jessop, from the pub. “He did, thanks,” Thomas said, a bit grudgingly.

“I did wonder if someone oughter have warned ye,” he said. “Tully can’t bear the sight of an empty glass.”

“I see,” Thomas said. “Bit of a handicap, running a pub, I would think.”

“Aye,” Jessop said. “I try to keep him out from behind the bar when we’re open for business. Any road, next time, keep your glass half full if you don’t want him topping it up, yeah?”

He drifted off, and Theo filled the time by briefing Thomas on some of the other local worthies. In addition to the doctors of medicine and divinity, they had a retired Oxford don—he, apparently, did the Newcomer’s Group session on Plato—and a barrister. 

“Much call for that here?”

“Some of the toffs have business interests back in England that need looking after,” Theo explained. “And he usually draws up wills for the married couples, to give the thing a bit of legal standing.” 

When the crowd had started to thin out a bit, Richard turned up. “Ready?” he asked Thomas.

“For what?”

“You said I could walk you home,” he explained, looking a bit put out. “Did you forget?”

“Not exactly,” Thomas said, then immediately that Richard had just handed him the perfect excuse not to explain that he had not, for so much as a second, imagined that he was serious about that, and made a quick about-face. “Quite a bit’s happened since then.”

“Suppose it has,” Richard said, taking his arm and beginning to steer him out of the hall. “I heard you got invited to the private party at the Wardmaster’s Den.”

“Yeah,” Thomas said. 

“I’ve never had the honor, but I understand they can get quite festive.”

So the entire island knew he’d gotten drunk off his arse—fantastic. “A bit.”

Outdoors, Richard said, “Shall we take the scenic route? I think the rain’ll hold off for a while.” 

Thomas knew that taking the long way round was accepted practice in being beau’d home from a village church—not that even the rest of them at Downton ever got to do it, since they had to rush back to the house to be ready for the Return of The Family. Needless to say, he’d certainly never done it. “If you like,” he said, feeling like a bit of a tit. 

“Well, why not?” Richard said, and made for a footpath that appeared to lead to a row of cottages. “A lovely sermon, I thought.”

“Lovely,” Thomas agreed. Talking about the sermon was also an established part of the walking-someone-home-from-church ritual—Thomas knew because his sister had once made him rehearse with her a number of lines of conversation that might be pursued no matter what the sermon had been about. Dredging up the memory, he managed to hold up his end of the conversation.

Past the cottages, Thomas could see that the footpath wound around the hill where the Main House sat, through a stand of trees and past the field where they kept the cow. He also saw several pairs of men making their way up it, arm-in-arm as he and Richard were. 

It was something of a relief to know that this bit of play-acting wasn’t some eccentricity on Richard’s part. 

Once the topic of the sermon had been fully explored—or, at least, as fully as it could be given that Thomas had barely heard a word of it—Richard moved on to a few points of village gossip. “— _still_ haven’t made an announcement, but with the way they’ve been buying up household things, I don’t know who they think they’re fooling. They were even looking at that broken grandfather clock at the Jumble.”

“There’s a broken grandfather clock at the Jumble?” Thomas asked.

Richard paused and squinted at him. “That wasn’t really the point of the story, but yes.” 

“Do you know what’s wrong with it?”

“Ah, no,” Richard said. “I gather it’s been down at the Jumble for years. Can’t get rid of it.”

“Hm,” Thomas said, and immediately set about thinking up plans for how he could get a look at the clock and, with any luck, get the shopkeeper to pay him to fix it. 

“On account of it doesn’t work,” Richard added. “You’re…interested in clocks, then?”

Thomas very carefully did not think about the last time he’d discussed clocks with a handsome man. “My dad was a clockmaker.”

“Oh,” Richard said. “You, ah, decided not to go into the trade?”

“There were a lot of us,” Thomas explained. And his dad never liked him much, even before the incident with the neighbor boy, but that was neither here nor there. “But I always looked after the clocks when I was a footman.” 

“Always helpful to have something to set you apart from the crowd a bit,” Richard noted. 

“Yeah,” Thomas agreed, though Carson had treated it more like an annoyance than anything else, as though Thomas had gotten good at cleaning clocks merely to get out of polishing silver. “They’re a bit of a specialty of mine.”

“Cricket, clocks,” Richard said. “What other hidden talents do you have?”

None that Thomas could think of, as a matter of fact, but he matched Richard’s flirtatious tone and answered, “You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”

“Suppose I will,” Richard said, with a smile.

This was about the time that Thomas would normally start thinking about, say, touching Richard’s arm for a half-second or so longer than would be strictly typical, but since Richard was _already holding his arm_ , he was a bit unsure what came next. Lacking any better ideas, he wound up blurting out, “Look, there’s the cow.”

“So it is,” said Richard, and they paused beside the pasture fence, looking at the cow. “D’you like cows?”

“No,” said Thomas, as the cow raised its head. 

“I had to try and milk this one once,” Richard told him. “And I really hope she doesn’t remember me.”

The cow took a step toward them, and they hurried on. “What are you doing milking cows?”

“Work rotation,” Richard said grimly. “Seems they don’t get too many of us with experience in the more _rural_ occupations, so they like to make you give it a try, just in case you’ve missed your calling as a farmer or a house-builder or something.”

“Ugh,” Thomas said. 

“Yes. Morrow was actually a bit keen on the idea of being a shepherd for a bit—you spend most of your time out on the back half of the island with a dog—but then he found out you sometimes have to give them a bit of help lambing.” He made an unpleasantly evocative reaching gesture. 

Thomas rather wished he’d saved _Ugh_ for that one. “Blimey.” Mentally moving “establish clock expertise” up near the top of his to-do list, he added, “I was thinking I might be about ready for something more substantial to do than tidying the smoking room, but now I’m not so sure I’d better say anything.”

“Oh, you won’t actually have to explore the internal anatomy of a ewe unless you’ve expressed an interest,” Richard said. “Milking the cow is about as bad as it gets on the agricultural rotation.” He paused. “Well, there was a hen that _really_ didn’t like it when I tried to collect her eggs, but I think we’ve eaten her.”

“Ah,” said Thomas. 

“And another week, they had me helping out with getting Lawrence and Mark’s cottage ready for them to move in—I volunteered for that one, thinking we’d be dusting and putting up curtains or something, and then they had me up on the roof nailing the shingles on. Not my métier, either, but I was a bit proud of myself, seeing them move in after their wedding and knowing it was thanks in part to me they had a house that would keep the weather out.” 

The funny thing was, Thomas could sort of see how he would feel that way. Walking on—the other pairs of men within sight, but not hearing—he nerved himself up to ask the question that had been preying on his mind since the day before. “Isn’t it all a bit mad, though? This place?”

“Well, yes,” Richard allowed. “But it’s a good kind of mad, isn’t it?”

That rocked Thomas back on his heels a bit—all his life, he’d tried to be normal. Was there even such a thing as a good kind of mad? “I mean, I could get used to marrying blokes bit,” he said. “But all this….” He searched for words. “Play-acting like it’s a perfectly ordinary village, when it’s actually a lunatic asylum.”

“It feels a lot less like play-acting when you’ve gotten used to it,” Richard said. “I mean, it _is_ a village. Being a Newcomer is a bit…artificial. Like when you did your Army training, and they have you marching up and down in your uniform and stabbing sacks of stray with a bayonet—maybe they didn’t have you do that in the RAMC, but there was probably something.”

“Stretcher drill,” Thomas said absently, thinking about the comparison. 

“Right,” Richard said. “And it’s all fine if you just go along with it, but every now and again you take a sort of step back, inside your head, and you think _what in God’s name am I doing out here playing soldiers with a bunch of other grown men?_ ”

“Yeah,” Thomas said. “And even when you get shipped out, and you’re mostly too busy trying to keep your cigarettes dry and your skin in one piece to really worry about what it all means , but then something makes you stop and take notice, and it’s hard to see what it could possibly be other than a sick joke at your expense.” 

“Hm,” Richard said, gesturing to a bit of stone wall. They seated themselves upon it, and he took out his cigarettes, lighting one for each of them. “I was actually batman for—” His hesitation was almost unnoticeable. “—someone on the General Staff. But I know what you mean, about it sometimes seeming like it couldn’t possibly be real. Sometimes I’d go from reading him the casualty reports to what kind of wine I could scrounge up for the dinner he was having that night. But I suppose what I meant was, we all know what it’s like to be shipped off somewhere, without a lot of choice in the matter, and have them try to mold us into something else. This is certainly an improvement over the last time.”

“Sure,” Thomas said. There wasn’t any doubt about that. “But….”

“But?”

“In the Army, you weren’t expected to like it.” 

“Hm,” Richard said again. 

“I mean, I’m not saying I don’t. Necessarily. This bit’s all right,” he added, indicating Richard, the wall they were sitting on, and the situation in general. “It’s just…I don’t know.”

“Well,” Richard said. “You don’t actually _have_ to like it. Morrow doesn’t.”

“Yeah, and everyone knows he’s the one who doesn’t like anything.”

“There can be two ones who don’t like anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Thanks, but that’s not it.” 

“What is it, then?”

“I don’t—” _I don’t want to be the one who doesn’t like anything_. “I don’t know.” 

“Oh.” Richard quirked an eyebrow at him. “Maybe just get on with things for a bit, then, and don’t worry about whether you like it or not?”

He had a point—Thomas didn’t have another head-shrinking session scheduled, at least. He took the last drag of his cigarette and flicked it away. “Suppose there is something in that.”

“Of course there is.” Hopping down from the wall, Richard offered Thomas his arm again. “Tell me more about clocks,” he suggested as they started walking again.

“What about them?”

“I don’t know. What do you like about them? Do you have a favorite kind of clock?”

“…is that innuendo?”

“No,” Richard said. “Er, I suppose it could be if you wanted.”

“No,” said Thomas, firmly. “Well, I suppose watches are interesting, because all the works are so tiny….”

#

“So are you and Richard, like, walking out now?”

Thomas glanced over at Syl, who was perched on the edge of his bed, hugging his pillow. Thomas had come up to the room after dinner, hoping for a bit of time to himself, but apparently that wasn’t going happen. “No,” he said, and turned a page in the book he was reading.

“But he likes you.”

Anywhere else, it would have been an accusation. “Maybe.”

“I know he does,” Syl said, flopping backward on the bed with a dramatic sigh. “Wish I had a boy-friend.”

“I haven’t got a—” He stopped himself. “You know, all of the blokes here, are here because they don’t like girls. It’s something of a requirement.”

“So?” said Syl. 

“So maybe try being less of a girl.”

This, Thomas thought, was fairly good advice, but Syl scoffed. Then, when Thomas didn’t react, he did it again, more loudly. Thomas ostentatiously turned a page in his book, even though he hadn’t actually finished with the last one. Finally, Syl wrapped himself in his dignity and his floral-pattern artificial silk kimono, and flounced off.

That hadn’t been precisely the result Thomas was going for, but he’d take it. 

He wasn’t left in peace for long. A short while later, Theo came in. “Thomas.” 

“Yes?”

“Did you say something to upset Syl?”

“No.” He hadn’t said it _to_ upset him. 

“Thomas.” 

_Here we go again_. “He might’ve taken it the wrong way,” Thomas allowed.

With a sigh, Theo sat down on his own bed. “What did you say, exactly?”

“He wanted to know why he hasn’t got blokes asking to walk him home from church.”

“And?”

“And I said it could be because the blokes here don’t like girls.”

When Thomas cautiously glanced up from his book, Theo had his eyes shut, and was pinching the bridge of his nose. “Right,” he said. “There might be something in that, but do you see how it might have been a bit unkind?”

Thomas halfway wanted to point out to him that he wasn’t exactly known for being particularly kind. The opposite, in fact. But he swallowed it down and just said, “I suppose.”

“I know you find him a bit…much, but make an effort, all right?”

Now Thomas scoffed. Less theatrically than Syl had. 

“What?”

“I bloody well have been, haven’t I?” Tossing the book aside, he sat up, wishing there were somewhere _he_ could storm off to. “I haven’t said anything about how he never does a lick of work, or how he never shuts up, or about how I’ve always got to follow you around while we go wherever he wants to go, or, or—anything!”

It was the sort of outburst that would have had him in the doghouse for the rest of his life at Downton—if not outright sacked—but Theo, after a moment, sighed and said, “All right, so you have been making an effort. But.” He took another deep breath. “Syl being…more effeminate than you’d like is really none of your business. All of the things you just said are legitimate concerns that you could have brought up any time.”

“What, really?”

“Yes!” Theo threw up his hands. “Why do you think I keep asking you how you’re settling in, and if there’s anything bothering you?”

“I don’t know.” Because it was his bloody job, maybe?

“I ask them because I want to know the answers,” Theo said, with obvious exasperation. “You could also have said something at Morning Meeting. Or even in your session with Dr. L.”

“….I didn’t want to complain?” 

“Right. Of course. Do you think that stewing over your grievances until you lose your temper and insult people is better?”

Well, not when he put it _that_ way. “I suppose not.”

“All right. Good. Would you like to talk some more about the things Syl does that bother you?”

Thomas eyed him suspiciously. “Not really.” He knew it wasn’t the answer Theo wanted, but hadn’t he just said, more-or-less, that he asked questions

Theo did the nose-pinching thing again. “You mentioned…feeling that he doesn’t do his share of the work?”

So much for wanting to know the answers. “Yes.”

“How about I get you on separate work assignments for this week? Give you a bit of a break from him?”

“…All right,” Thomas said, wondering if his new work assignment would involve cows.

“And if there’s somewhere you’d like me to go with you, all you have to do is ask.”

That hadn’t been the point. “Fine.”

“Anything else you’d like to talk about?”

He didn’t even want to talk about this. “No.”

“Right, then.” Theo stood up. “Let me know if you think of anything.”

The next day, at Morning Meeting, Thomas was mostly-relieved to be given the job of tending the common-room fires, with Morrow. It was a job he’d done thousands of times as a footman, and here, you didn’t even have to keep after them all day, as the people using the rooms were entirely capable of tossing some coal into a grate. He and Morrow went round sweeping the grates and filling the coal-scuttles in blessed silence, apart from Morrow occasionally telling Wilberforce to get out of the way, and then they were at liberty for the rest of the day, apart from refilling the scuttles again somewhere between tea and dinner. 

Thomas ensconced himself in the library, smoking and catching up on the week-old newspapers that had been brought on the last boat, and felt that the entire situation had—inexplicably and unprecedentedly—turned out rather well for him, right up until he was summoned to Dr. L.’s office.

“Mr. Barrow,” he said. “Thank you for coming. I’m afraid I don’t have time in my schedule for a full session today, but I understand a few things have come up in the last day or two.”

 _You rotten little sneak_ , Thomas thought, unsure if he meant Syl or Theo. “Sir.”

“You aren’t in any trouble. I simply thought you might want to talk.”

Like hell he wasn’t. “Sir.”

“It’s very ordinary to hit a few rough patches, adjusting to life here.”

Rough patches. Was that what they were calling it these days? “Yes, sir.”

Dr. L. smiled tightly. “I had wondered if you might feel more comfortable talking with Dr. Rouse.”

Wait, was this about the drinking? Thomas eyed him suspiciously. 

“Or we could set up a session for later in the week…?”

Was he being given a choice, then—Rouse now, or Dr. L. later? Honestly unable to decide which prospect was more horrifying, Thomas said, “Whatever you think best, sir.”

He sighed. “Very well. By the way, you might be a bit more…cautious in your socializing. There are matters of reputation to think of.”

So it _was_ about the drinking. Feeling that he was once again treading on familiar ground, Thomas said, “Yes, sir. Hadn’t been to the pub in a while. I’ll be more careful.”

“Good.” Dr. L. regarded him for a long moment—long enough that Thomas started wondering if there was something else he was supposed to say—but finally dismissed him.

Thomas left his office—a bit surprised _not_ to find Theo and Syl waiting for him—and returned to his newspapers. 

The absence of the other two was explained when Christopher—whom he’d recently learned liked to be called Kit—dropped into the chair across from his, idly paging through a months-old copy of _The Sketch_. “You going to the concert tonight?”

He’d forgotten that was today. “Haven’t decided.” About the last thing he wanted to see was Syl prancing around in frocks all evening, but would it look strange if he _didn’t_ go? “You?”

“Probably. There’s nothing else happening.” He closed the magazine. “Thought you might be going with Richard.”

Bloody hell. Did _everyone_ think he was walking out with Richard now? “No.”

“Or Peter Fitzroy,” he added. “Did you know him before, or something?”

“No,” Thomas said. Wait, did he think Fitzroy inviting him to the pub was a _date_? “That was, uh, RAMC thing. We were both in it. During the War. Never ran into each other, though.”

“Well, he’s very sweet,” Kit said. “And Richard’s dishy as hell, of course.” 

“Er, right,” Thomas said, suppressing the instinct to look around to see who might be overhearing these scandalous remarks. 

“But, ah, as you’ve not made plans with either of them…how about it, then? The concert,” he added.

It took Thomas a moment to grasp that he was suggesting that they go _together_. “Well, ah….” Kit wasn’t bad looking, himself, and they had gotten a bit friendly. “All right. I suppose.”

“Lovely,” Kit said, standing up. “I’ll, just, ah, I’ll meet you in the hall at six, then?”

Six was making rather a meal of it—the concert was at half-past, and the walk down to the village took all of ten minutes—but Thomas nodded. “All right.” 

Tea turned out to be a rather substantial one—since dinner would be late, after the concert—so it was actually a bit of a rush to get all of the coal scuttles done. By the time Thomas made it up to the room to change, everybody else was in there getting ready as well, and he had to wait his turn to have a shave. He put the time to good use in selecting a tie, but he was still running a few minutes late by the time he was ready.

He ran into Richard at the top of the stairs. “Oh, Thomas,” he said. “You look nice.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you going to the concert, then? I wasn’t sure it was your sort of thing.”

“Oh, well, there’s nothing else going on,” Thomas said. 

“Suppose not. Well, perhaps we could—”

“Thomas!” Kit said, meeting him at the bottom of the stairs. “I was starting to wonder if I was being stood up.”

“Right,” Thomas began.

“I’ll just—” Richard said. “Have fun.” He walked purposefully off toward a group that was standing on the other side of the hall. 

Thomas turned his attention back to Kit. “Sorry. Bit of a queue for the shaving mirror.”

“Oh, right,” Kit said, taking his arm. “That might’ve been my least favorite thing about living in the dormitory. Shall we?”

As they walked down to the parish hall, Kit told a few anecdotes about previous concerts—they were, apparently, a frequent occurrence on the island. “—trying to do the trick where you take bites out of the apples as you juggle them, but—well, he only lost the one tooth.” He shook his head. “This one probably won’t be as exciting. Of course it’s the disasters that really stand out in one’s memory, but the standard is actually fairly good, as amateur concerts go.”

“You an expert on amateur concerts, then?” Thomas asked, teasing. 

“I’ve covered enough of them,” Kit said. “I’m a journalist—was a journalist. Sort of a journalist. I mostly wrote for local papers—amateur concerts, church fetes, flower shows; I’ve done the lot.”

“I see,” Thomas said. From Kit’s accent and clothes, Thomas wouldn’t have guessed he’d actually had to work for a living; he wondered if the family had come down in the world, or if the journalism had been a hobby. “We had some really wretched concerts during the War.” At Kit’s enquiring glance, he added, “I was working in this convalescent home. For officers, you know.”

“Where was it? Your convalescent home.”

“Yorkshire.”

“Ah. I was mostly in Suffolk. Propaganda department. I sort of imagined I’d be writing dispatches from the Front, but instead they had me covering the same sort of stuff as before, except the concerts were for troops, the fetes were for War Bonds, et cetera.”

“You were well out of it,” Thomas noted. 

“So I’ve heard,” Kit said. “Any rate, an amateur concert in a convalescent home would’ve been catnip to my editor—you could write up the concert right away, and get photos and quotations to put aside for an ‘angels in uniform’ piece, and only pay once for petrol.” 

Thomas nodded. “Oh, it gets even better than that. One of our nurses was the daughter of the peer whose house it was.”

Kit whistled. “That’s at least good for a third article. Did you have any Americans? Readers love a Yank.”

“Can’t help you there,” Thomas said. “A Canadian or two, but.”

Kit tutted. “Canadians just don’t have the same novelty value, I’m afraid, but we’ll have to make the best of it.” They arrived at the parish hall, and Kit paused to light a cigarette, giving Thomas one as well. “Anything else to sweeten the pot?”

“Nothing the family would want printed, I’m afraid,” he said. “Or the War Office, for that matter. Don’t imagine they’d like to hear about a major impregnating a housemaid?”

“Not at all the thing, I’m afraid.”

“You could take a break from the angels in uniform and write something about the orderlies who do all the same work and never get a word of thanks,” Thomas suggested. “Nobody ever does that one.”

“I actually suggested it once,” Kit said. “Apparently the reading public isn’t interested.”

“Typical,” Thomas said. 

“You can just about get away with an admiring quote from an orderly about the nurses—especially if he’s got a quaint regional accent, which you can render phonetically—but that’s the limit.” 

“What, like,” Thomas broadened his accent by several notches, “right good workers, t’lasses are, ye ken, nowt they won’t do?”

“More or less,” Kit agreed. “Except the last bit might have just a hint of a double meaning, so we’ll have to strike that.”

“Oh, yes, I see.” Thomas was a bit surprised to find that he was almost enjoying himself. For one thing, Kit seemed no more eager to talk of serious subjects than Thomas was. It was a bit like it had been with Phillip, before everything had gone wrong between them—though, in hindsight, with Phillip, there had always been a hint of condescension, like Thomas was his pet footman or something. 

Some of the others were starting to turn up then, so they finished their cigarettes and went inside. The usual parish-hall assortment of knocked-about chairs and benches were set up in rows facing a makeshift stage, and Thomas lost no time in claiming a spot near the back. It was more from habit than anything else, but when Kit—who had gone several rows ahead before he noticed that Thomas wasn’t with him—returned and took the seat next to him, he explained, “Might need to make a quick getaway, if it’s too dire.”

“Ah,” Kit said. “Good thinking.”

As the hall gradually filled up, Kit went on chattering lightly, moving from the subject of amateur theater to professional, and then other things he missed about life off the island. “—food here really isn’t bad at all, but there’s just something about going to a restaurant.” He shrugged, and made a fatalistic sort of _tsk_. “What about you?”

What about him? “I was a servant in a big house in a small village,” he said. “There isn’t really much to miss. A little before—before I left, they showed a cinema film in the parish hall, and that was the biggest excitement we’d had in months. I didn’t even go.” If he had—

Well, best not to think about that.

“Oh,” Kit said. “I suppose this isn’t as much of an adjustment, then.”

“In some ways, I suppose,” Thomas said dubiously. Kit gave him an enquiring look, and he added, “I’ve a lot of time on my hands here. I’m not used to that.” That was far from being the biggest difference, but it was one that he supposed he didn’t mind talking about, if he had to talk about something. “They pretty much keep you going dawn to midnight, in service.”

“I know what you mean,” Kit said, then added, “Well, sort of. The paper didn’t keep me quite that busy, but I took it up because I don’t much like sitting around doing nothing.” He went on to discuss his choice of career, dropping enough hints along the way to establish that he came from the sort of background that his wardrobe and accent suggested, and wouldn’t have had to work at all. “—had this idea about doing it all on my own, you know, not trading on my father’s name. If I’d known how little time I had to make my mark on the world, I might have chosen differently,” he added, with a look around their decidedly un-distinguished surroundings. “Now…well, I suppose I could try writing a novel or something, but I don’t have any knack for that sort of writing…not particularly creative, I suppose.”

Thomas considered a moment. “If you really miss it, you could write up this,” he suggested, indicating the stage. “Read it out at Morning Meeting?”

“Not really the same,” Kit said. “For one thing, there won’t be anyone at Morning Meeting who isn’t already here.”

“Morrow,” Thomas pointed out. “And Wilberforce.”

“True,” Kit allowed.

About then, there were some ominous rustlings from behind the bedsheets that were serving as the stage curtains, and the vicar came out to make a brief opening speech, and to announce the first act: “A very special guest, fresh from the stage of some of London’s most _notorious_ nightclubs, Miss Sylvia!”

“Oh, God help us,” Thomas muttered, under cover of the enthusiastic applause. Syl, dressed in a red evening gown and a blond wig, came _slinking_ out onto the stage, singing in a husky falsetto. 

_“In my sweet little Alice-blue gown…”_

He actually, Thomas thought, wasn’t a particularly bad singer. It was just that the costume, not to mention the choice of song, had Thomas wanting to crawl under his chair. Still, he applauded politely with the others, saying to Kit, “Wonder if he did that number during the War.” If he had, Thomas would have to give him credit for brass, if nothing else—a bit of comedy drag was _de rigueur_ at Army entertainments, but this was not that.

“Hm?” Kit asked.

“He mentioned he used to do Shakespeare’s leading ladies at rest-camps,” Thomas explained. 

“Goodness,” said Kit. 

Several of those who sang or recited following Syl also chose pieces more usually performed by women, but the rest of them did so in men’s clothing. There was also a string quartet that seemed rather good—Kit whispered to him that the violinist used to play in Covent Garden—and a pair of tap dancers. The last act before the interval was the debutante ball sketch, featuring Syl in a white dress. It opened with one character saying that he’d heard “Miss Sylvia is to come out tonight,” and another answering, “Darling, was she ever _in_?”

This line produced uproarious laughter, and from then on, Thomas’s sense that the humor was going over his head only deepened. 

When the curtain came down on the number, there was a bit of a stampede for punch and ash-trays. Taking up a position next to one of the latter, Thomas allowed Kit to fetch him a cup of the former, enjoying the novelty of not being the one serving it. 

Cigarettes finished, they took their punch on a circuit of the room, Kit pausing now and then to introduce him to people. Partway around, Thomas nodded to Richard, who was standing by the refreshments table with Theo, Fitzroy, and a few others. Richard nodded back, a bit stiffly, and Thomas was obscurely reminded of standing with a tray in his hand, watching Phillip dance with Lady Mary.

So he was already beginning to wonder if it was, perhaps, not _entirely_ the done thing, in this strange little village, to allow one man to walk you home from church, and another to take you to a concert the next day, when Syl made his entrance. He came out of the dressing room in his silk wrapper, with his wig off, but his stage makeup still on. He began sashaying from one group of people to another, soliciting admiring remarks. Anticipating that Syl’s course would collide with theirs eventually, Thomas decided that his best bet would be to have just taken a drink of punch when Syl caught up to them, so that he could just nod in apparent agreement with whatever Kit, or someone, said. 

Unfortunately, he’d emptied his cup ages ago. “Could use some more punch,” he said, making a break in that direction. 

The first part of the plan went off without a hitch—Kit relieved him of his cup and went to refill it—but on his return, Theo came with him, and so did Richard. “Richard,” Thomas said, taking his cup back from Kit. 

“Thomas,” he said. “Enjoying the concert?”

“It’s not half bad,” he said. 

And so it was that he was standing there, with Richard to one side of him and Kit to the other—the latter having recaptured Thomas’s arm—when Syl made a bee-line for them, his expression…well, rather like the one Lady Mary wore when she saw Lady Edith speaking to a man of any description. 

“Excellent debut, Syl,” Theo said, as soon as Syl was within speaking distance. “We were all just saying.”

“Thank you,” Syl said, with a bit of a pout. “I do my best.” Thomas attempted his punch-drinking and nodding maneuver, but Syl wasn’t buying it. “Thomas, darling,” he said, his voice honey laced with acid, “just how many men is it that you _need_?”

Theo said, “Syl—”

Thomas spoke over him. “I beg your pardon?”

“ _Three_ in as many days?”

Wait, did he think Thomas was _sleeping_ with all of them? Did everyone _else_ think that? “ _Darling_ ,” Thomas spat. “It’s hardly my fault that no one’s interested in—” He gestured at Syl’s clothes, hair, and face. “That.”

Shocked gasps. “ _Thomas_!” said Theo. 

“ _What?”_ Thomas asked, as Syl ran over to a knot of his fellow-performers, making noises of exaggerated distress. 

Theo sighed, shook his head, and went after Syl, leaving Thomas with Kit and Richard. Grimacing, Richard said, “Bit of a low shot.”

“Oh, who asked you?” Thomas demanded, then about-faced and went outside for a smoke. 

He did wonder, a bit, whether anyone would come after him, and only realized when he heard Kit’s voice that he had, in fact, sort of been hoping it would be Richard. 

“Curtain’s going back up in a minute,” Kit said. 

Fantastic. Would he just be drawing more attention to the situation if he went home now, and skipped the second half?

Probably. “All right,” he said, taking a deep drag to finish off his cigarette and flicking it away. “Syl and I aren’t exactly best mates,” he explained. 

“I gathered,” Kit said. “I hope I didn’t…put my foot in it, asking you this evening.”

Thomas hoped he hadn’t put his foot in it by accepting, but just said, “It’s fine. I don’t see why it’s any business of his.”

“That’s village life for you,” Kit said.

The curtain was already going up as they found their seats again, which at least eliminated the need for any more talking. 

#

Thomas managed to make it through the rest of the evening with no further disasters, mostly by claiming to be very tired and escaping back up to the Main House as soon as the performance was finished, and then by pretending to be asleep when Theo and everyone else came back. 

The next day, Syl was surrounded at both breakfast and Morning Meeting by a supportive cordon of his theatrical friends, who alternated between staring daggers at Thomas and ostentatiously ignoring him. He’d not have minded— _didn’t mind—_ but both Kit and Richard seemed to have other things to do this morning.

Or were deliberately keeping their distance. Not that Thomas cared if they were. 

Morrow, at least, seemed completely normal when they went round doing the fires—but, as it was Morrow, that meant that he said nothing, and Thomas certainly couldn’t ask him just how badly he’d cocked things up with Richard. 

They finished up with the fires in the small parlour, and Thomas would have stayed there—for lack of any better ideas—except that Syl and his mates came fluttering in. Thomas retired instead to the smoking room, where he was promptly run to ground by Theo.

“So,” Theo said, with false heartiness. “You and Syl.”

Thomas wondered if it would do any bloody good at all to point out that _Syl_ was the one who’d come up to _him_ and started making un-called-for remarks. “What about him?”

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that his feelings were hurt by what you said to him last evening.”

“And?”

“And he feels that the…incident cast a bit of a pall over the concert, after he and the others put quite a bit of effort into making it a success.” 

Bloody fantastic. So now Thomas had ruined the concert, had he? “He could have just left me alone,” Thomas pointed out. 

“He could have,” Theo said. “Or you could have not risen to the bait.”

Right. Funny how it was never that way when Thomas was the one stirring the pot. 

“You can’t control what Syl does,” Theo said, completely missing the point that Thomas wasn’t trying to. “But you can control how you react.”

Maybe _somebody_ ought to be controlling what Syl did. 

“Do you see what I mean?”

What was it he wanted, exactly? “Yes,” Thomas said, flatly. Whatever happened, he was going to get the blame. He saw that very clearly. 

“Good,” he said. “All right. Now, for the sake of keeping the peace, will you, please, apologize to Syl?”

“Fine.” Not like he actually had a choice. 

Thomas half-feared that Theo would choose Meeting or Group or something equally public and horrifying as the venue for this apology, but he decided instead that they were going to do it immediately, and went to fetch Syl. 

It was better than the alternative, but didn’t give Thomas much time to think up an apology he could deliver without wanting to be sick or punch someone. When Syl came in—clutching a handkerchief and a carefully-maintained air of tragic dignity—Thomas waited just long enough for him to alight on the edge of an ottoman and then said, “Sorry I ruined your concert, Syl. Um. Your song was all right, I guess.” 

Syl raised his chin and looked away. “Syl,” Theo said, “was there something you wanted to say to Thomas?”

“I’m sorry,” he sniffed. “I just think I ought to be able to have one nice evening. Is that too much to ask?”

 _Oh, God help us_. Thomas just managed not to say it out loud.

“You may not realize this, but some of us can’t just sit in a corner _brooding_ and have everyone in the world flocking round trying to cheer us up. Some of us have to make an effort. Put ourselves out there.”

What in God’s name was he banging on about? 

“Syl,” Theo said again.

Drawing himself up, and intensifying the tragic air, Syl said, “I’m sorry if I implied that you were a slut.”

“Yeah,” Thomas said. “Cheers for that, mate.” 

Theo sighed. “I suppose that’s the best we’re going to do,” he muttered. “Both of you, just please try to leave each other alone, all right?”

Thomas didn’t bother trying to point out that he had _already_ been trying to do just that.

He spent the rest of the morning on tenterhooks, waiting to be called in to explain himself to Dr. L. again, but after lunch, it turned out to be Syl who received the dreaded summons. No one said anything about Thomas being next, so he immediately made his escape, pausing only to obediently inform Theo that he was going to the village for cigarettes.

After buying them—and failing to determine one way or the other whether there was any new coolness in Fitzroy’s manner when he handed him the change—Thomas went into the jumble shop, and very casually perused the supply of candlesticks, penwipers, and other bric-a-brac until he ended up in front of the famous clock. 

It was an eight-day clock, in a fairly modest oak case, but with an engraved face, and a high-tide indicator. Opening the door that partially concealed the face, Thomas found a maker’s name that made his eyes widen—mid-18th century, _very_ good. What was a beauty like this doing in a junk shop in the back of beyond?

“It doesn’t work,” the shopkeeper said, coming over to him. “But it’s yours for five quid.”

If it was at all repairable, that was a tiny fraction of its worth, but since Thomas didn’t have five pounds, it might not matter much. “Any idea what’s wrong with it?” he asked. 

The man shook his head. “I heard they dropped it taking if off the boat.” 

_Really_. “I could take a look, if you like,” he suggested. “I know a bit about clocks.”

Considering this for a moment, the man said, “Suit yourself. I don’t suppose it can get any more broken.”

The set of tools that the shopkeeper kept behind the counter, while not what Thomas would have chosen for delicate work, were just about adequate to the task, and he spent an enthralling afternoon examining the poor clock’s mechanisms. 

The most obvious bit of trouble was that the escape wheel had slipped free of the anchor, which could easily have happened when it was dropped. That would take only a few moments to put right—but Thomas didn’t think much of his chances of getting paid to fix it, or even of impressing anyone, if it was that easy. Fortunately for him—if not for the clock—the workings were also badly corroded, probably from the combination of neglect and salt air. Sorting _that_ out would be time-consuming, but well within Thomas’s abilities. 

As far as Thomas could tell by just looking, nothing in the mechanism was actually broken. After sorting out the escapement, he gave the pendulum an experimental nudge, and actually got it to tick a bit. 

If Thomas had been just passing through—and had been enough of a bastard to do that to an innocent clock—he could have given the pendulum more than a nudge, and got it ticking long enough for him to collect a fee for repairing it. But the corrosion would slow it down too much to keep anything like accurate time, and it wouldn’t be long before it locked up again, breaking God-knows-what in the process. In the long run, the clock had been lucky it was dropped when it did, and that it hadn’t fallen into the hands of someone who knew just enough to pop the escapement back together.

“Have you got it working?” the shopkeeper said, sounding surprised.

Thomas stilled the pendulum. “Not quite.” He explained the clock’s troubles, throwing in enough technical terms to make an impression on a nonexpert. 

“Can you fix it?” the man asked.

“I can get it running, yeah,” Thomas said. “Can’t tell by looking if it’ll keep time, but the mechanism’s a good one.” 

“I expect I could find a buyer for it even if all it does is tick,” the shopkeeper said. 

“Right,” Thomas said. “So what’s it worth to you to have it fixed?”

The shopkeeper was, unfortunately, unwilling to pay cash up-front for the repair of an item that had been sitting in his shop unsold since before the War, but when Thomas began to give him an idea of its potential value in good working order, he was willing to entertain the notion of paying Thomas a percentage if it sold. 

They agreed he’d come back the day after next to do the work—tomorrow was Group, and he wanted to have a look around for some better tools—and Thomas started back for the Main House feeling that at least one thing had gone right. Sure, the entire village was now talking about his terrible personality, but with any luck, by the end of the week, they’d also know that he could fix clocks.

It had to count for something, didn’t it?

But when he got back to the old hotel, Theo was waiting for him, and Thomas could instantly tell that he was not pleased. “Thomas.”

What could he possibly have done now? “Theo,” he said cautiously. 

“Where have you been?”

“Jumble shop,” Thomas said, after quickly calculating that there was neither any particular reason to conceal this information, nor much chance he’d get away with it if he tried.

“All afternoon?”

“I was looking at the clock.” Theo did not look at all impressed, so he added, “I think I can fix it.”

Theo sighed. “Good. Fantastic. But you said you were going to buy cigarettes.”

And he had. “I didn’t think there was anywhere else I had to be.” 

Theo pinched the bridge of his nose. He was doing that a lot lately. “I’m meant to have at least some idea where you are,” he said. “Dr. L. was looking for you, and I had to say you’d been off buying cigarettes for hours.”

 _Bloody hell._ It would do no good at all, Thomas realized, to point out that Theo had _not_ , in fact, had to say the _for hours_ bit. It was bad enough that he was being called on the carpet again, without the doctor thinking he’d been out doing God-knows-what all afternoon. Instead, he asked, “Does he still want to see me?”, and hoped that the answer would be _no_.

But instead, Theo said, “Let’s go and see if he’s free.”

Just to underscore the point that Thomas’s run of good luck had come to an end, Dr. L. was free, and immediately ushered Thomas into his office. “Well, Mr. Barrow,” he said. “How is…everything?”

It had to be a trap. “Well, sir,” he said, to buy time to think of an answer. Ought he to start by explaining where he’d been this afternoon? “I expect you’ve heard that I…that Syl and I….”

“Quarreled, yes.” 

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you’d want to speak to me as well. I was down in the village, at the jumble shop. They’ve got a broken clock.”

“Oh, yes,” Dr. L. said. “You mentioned your father was a clockmaker—you still take an interest?”

“Yes, sir. I think I can get it working again,” he added, even though that was not in any way relevant.

“Splendid. You know, my clock here in the office has been losing time a bit—perhaps you could have a look at it sometime.”

“Of course, sir.” Thomas glanced over at it—a short-pendulum wall clock. Anything with a pendulum was usually a pretty good time-keeper—no spring to wear out—but the weights might need adjusting…or, even more likely, it hadn’t been maintained any better than the jumble-shop one had. “Do you know when the works were last cleaned?”

“I don’t, but let’s put the clock to one side for now,” Dr. L. said. “I’ve heard a great deal from Mr. Tanner about your…disagreement. Perhaps you’d like to tell me your side of the story.”

Thomas remembered standing in Mr. Carson’s pantry, being asked to present a defense of his conduct toward Jimmy. “Well, sir,” he said. “To begin with, I suppose—I mean, Syl seems to think I’ve been—I mean, I haven’t _done_ anything, with any of them.”

“I understand,” the doctor said. “No one thinks you’ve done anything…improper.” 

That wasn’t what Syl said, but Thomas let it pass.

“It’s perfectly usual for new men to…receive a great deal of attention, this being a closed community. And, as I told Mr. Tanner, it’s more suitable, at this stage, to think in terms of making friends, finding a place for yourself in the community, rather than…pairing off.”

It was precisely the fact that he hadn’t _paired off_ that had Syl calling him a slut, wasn’t it? “Yes, sir.”

“And you might use the time to think about what it is you want in a romantic relationship.”

“Sir,” Thomas said, doubtfully.

“In the larger world, the sort of…liaisons that you’re able to have are often determined by convenience, availability. Here, you have the luxury of choice.”

“Sir,” he repeated. What in God’s name was that supposed to mean? 

“Mr. Ellis, Mr. Norridge, Mr. Fitzroy….” He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “All very suitable chaps, but may I ask what led you to spend time with them?”

Thomas tried, and failed, to imagine what the doctor could possibly be hinting at. Leaving aside the point that the thing with Fitzroy _had not been a date_ , they were a varied lot. Richard was certainly the most handsome, and Kit the richest, though none of the three was exactly hideous. With Dr. L. waiting patiently for an answer, he finally resorted to the truth. “Because they asked me?”

Dr. L. nodded. “I thought as much. Nothing wrong with that, but, well…you’ll have no shortage of admirers. You don’t have to be interested in a chap just because he’s interested in you.”

 _That_ flew in the face of all of Thomas’s—admittedly limited—prior experience, but in _this_ place…perhaps he had a point. 

Leaning forward, in an attitude meant to suggest candor, the doctor said, “Most of you lads, I’ve found, don’t value yourselves highly enough.”

Of all the things Thomas had been accused of in his life, _not valuing himself_ had never been one of them. He blinked. Twice.

“I’ve often thought,” he continued, “that if the average homosexual, particularly the working-class homosexual, could be taught to place a similar value on his virtue—for lack of a better word—to that which a girl of the same station places on hers, there would no longer be any conflict between the de-criminalization of homosexual conduct and the public health.”

Now _that_ , Thomas was not going to let pass. “Sir,” he said, in an affronted tone. 

“Hm? Oh, I don’t mean to suggest anything about your personal conduct…although, is there any woman of your acquaintance who would go into a man’s bedroom in the middle of the night for the purpose of kissing him?”

“I’m not a woman, sir.”

“Or, if you prefer, any man—with any claim whatsoever to respectability—who would go into a woman’s bedroom and kiss her in her sleep?”

Thomas _could_ think of one, in fact—a certain Turkish gentleman. “He wouldn’t have to,” Thomas pointed out. “He could just ask her to the pictures.”

“Precisely,” said Dr. L. “It’s the need for secrecy and shame that drives one to…disreputable conduct.”

Thomas wasn’t prepared to describe his _conduct_ with Jimmy—or Philip, for that matter—as disreputable, but now that he was thinking on it, he’d only had to show the Turk to Lady Mary’s bedroom because of the sheer impossibility of saying out loud that the man had been flirting with him. 

“Watch out for old habits,” the doctor continued. “There’s no need to keep secrets if you aren’t doing anything wrong.”

That, Thomas thought, could not possibly be right, but he knew better than to argue the point. “Yes, sir.”

“All right. Now, Theo tells me that you and Mr. Tanner are going to try to keep your distance?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think that’s wise, but I hope you don’t feel that you have to avoid taking part in community activities in order to give Mr. Tanner a wide berth.”

Yes, of course, there was nothing contradictory in those two directives. “Yes, sir.” 

#

Edmund once again pondered the difficulty of establishing a therapeutic _rapport_ with a patient who said almost nothing other than “Yes, sir.” In contrast with Mr. Tanner—who’d been only too eager to tell Edmund all about the previous evening’s _contremps_ , and his feelings of inferiority in comparison to Mr. Barrow, and his compulsion to show a bright, smiling face to the world, among many other subjects—Mr. Barrow might as well have been a blank slate, or an egg. 

His thoughts snagged on that second comparison—the first was a cliché, nothing to see there, but what had he meant by the second? Well, Barrow presumably had _some_ kind of inner life, as an egg did. And perhaps it would emerge into the light when Barrow was ready, as a chick did from an egg. Edmund had learned _that_ lesson when he was about six, when he’d broken open an egg in his eagerness to see the baby chick inside. 

But he already knew better than to try to push Barrow into some kind of revelation—he didn’t need his subconscious throwing _eggs_ at him to make the point. “Very well,” he said. “Is there anything else you’d like to discuss?”

Barrow answered, as Edmund knew he would, “No, sir.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes, detailed: Thomas, having gotten tired of Syl, says some unkind things to and about Syl. Specifically, he calls him a girl—which isn’t actually an insult, particularly since Syl is transfeminine, but Thomas doesn’t mean it in a nice way. Later in the chapter, Syl gives a drag performance, which Thomas finds embarrassing to watch. 
> 
> Historical notes: On Syl’s debutante sketch: In this period, the phrase “coming out,” in the gay sense, was on its way to acquiring the meaning that we’re all familiar with—owning up in public to being gay (or some other marginalized sexual or gender identity)—but it wasn’t quite there yet. Instead, “coming out” meant becoming part of the gay community—just as a girl who “comes out” in the high-society sense becomes a part of grown-up society. So the humor in Syl’s debutante sketch is _pretty much_ what you think it is, and Thomas is confused about it because he _hasn’t_ really “come out” in the 1920’s gay sense.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas goes to Group again, fixes a clock, and learns what he’s been missing out on in London’s gay scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: More early-20th-century psychiatry, as well as some early 20th-century biology. This content is (I think) less sensitive than Dr. L.’s lecture in chapter 1, but please note that some of the information has now been discredited. Characters also discuss their experiences of homophobia, internalized and otherwise, including a time Syl encountered transphobic violence. Further details and context in the endnotes.

“Anyone else, before we move on to our main topic?” Dr. Rouse asked. “All right, then. We’ve heard from the Bible and the ancient Greeks about why we are like we are. Now it’s science’s turn.”

Thomas breathed a sigh of relief. He’d looked forward to Newcomer’s Group with an extra measure of dread this week, because the “period of free discussion” would have been the perfect opportunity for Syl to give his grievances a thorough public airing. But now the danger was past, and Dr. Rouse was rattling on about inheritance and the development of the embryo in the womb—a topic that was both mildly interesting and reassuringly impersonal. 

“—get about half of your germ plasm from each parent, and that’s why you can inherit traits from either of them. Everybody knows that—you talk about a kid having its mother’s eyes or its father’s nose, right?” Rouse paused for agreement. “Or sometimes you end up with a mix of the two—yer mum’s tall, yer dad’s short, you could split the difference and end up average. But you can only take after one of ‘em when it comes to sex—well, almost always. And –well, most of you have heard from Dr. L. about the undifferentiated sex impulse, right?”

Thomas hadn’t, but there were nods and murmurs of agreement. 

“When Dr. Freud came up with that one, he thought that every embryo had the potential to turn out either way. That’s because all mammals begin development as female. Which, incidentally, which is why we all have nipples, even though they’re about as useful as tits on a bull—which apparently they do have, although I for one have never gotten close enough to check.” That got a laugh, and Rouse continued nattering on about how, if a woman miscarried earlier than about two months into pregnancy, you couldn’t tell what sex the baby would have been. 

Lady Grantham’s miscarriage must have been after that point, then, Thomas thought—he remembered somebody telling them it had been a boy.

“—then, around seven weeks into gestation—for the human embryo—something happens and about half of them start developing the physical characteristics of males, and the other half carry on growing the physical characteristics of females. Physical differentiation. But apart from the wedding-tackle area, things stay pretty much the same, between boys and girls, until late puberty, when you start to develop the secondary sexual characteristics—which just means, the differences you can notice when somebody’s got their kit on. And Freud figured that the _psyche_ also remains undifferentiated until puberty, and that sexual inversion therefore results when a male’s psyche develops more like a female’s, or vice-versa.”

Thomas was glad to see that several of the other men looked no more pleased about this explanation than he was. Syl, though, looked very interested, and immediately raised his hand. “So you’re saying that we’ve got…feminine…souls?”

“Well, I’m not saying it,” Rouse answered. “Freud sort of is.”

Bill spoke up. “I don’t think so, mate.” Thomas was glad he hadn’t been the one to say it, but joined in the murmur of agreement. 

“I’m not sure I buy it, either,” Rouse answered. “And that first bit—about the embryo starting out with the potential to be either male or female? Turns out that’s bollocks.” He went on to explain how a lady scientist in America had discovered a difference in germ-plasm—something called chromosomes—that seemed to determine whether the embryo developed into a male or a female. “I’m not sure anyone’s checked for it in humans yet—people can be funny about that sort of thing—but if it works that way for all the other mammals, it probably does for humans too.” 

Kit, sitting to Thomas’s left, put his hand up. “I don’t suppose anyone’s checked if our chromo-whatsits are the usual sort?”

“No, they haven’t,” Rouse said. “It’s a fairly new discovery—it’s only recently been accepted that chromosomes have anything to do with heredity at all. Anyway, my point is, Freud’s idea about the psyche being undifferentiated is built on top of the idea that the _body_ starts out undifferentiated. He _could_ be right about the psyche, and wrong about the body, but it would be a hell of a coincidence.” 

Syl was now sitting with his arms folded and a slight pout on his face, which intensified as Rouse went on to explain that no one had found any particular physical differences between homosexuals and everybody else. “Many people have a vague sort of idea that a homosexual is likely to have at least a few feminine characteristics, or at least to be sort of generally delicate, but both Dr. Ellis—author of _Sexual Inversion_ , who _think_ s he’s examined more homosexuals than any other medical man, and our own Dr. L., who actually _has_ , are in agreement that our lot display the same range of variation as the population in general.”

Looking around the room, Thomas would have thought that was obvious, but he supposed doctors had a different way of doing things. 

Rouse went on to explain that no one had come up with a _better_ explanation than Freud’s for how congenital homosexuality developed. “Something to do with the process of sexual differentiation is still the best guess anybody has, though I don’t see it happening in puberty. I mean, most of us had some idea there was _something_ different about us earlier on that that, yeah?”

Thomas was surprised to see how many of the Group were nodding in agreement—he’d thought he was the only one.

“For my money, I’d say it’s either something very early in development—those first seven weeks of gestation, maybe—or else it’s already inherent in the germ plasm.” He went on to talk about how there was some evidence of heredity playing a role in homosexuality. “Now, Dr. Ellis just sort of tosses that off, like it’s an interesting curiosity, but here’s the thing—how many of you know anything about Darwin’s theory of natural selection?”

One bloke suggested, “That thing with the monkeys, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s the survival of the fittest,” said Bill. “I’ve ‘eard this bit before.”

“Right,” said Rouse. “Essentially, he says that species change over time because selection favors characteristics that help an organism survive in a particular environment.” 

A long digression about finches followed, in which Rouse explained how individuals of the same species would vary from one another in all kinds of ways, but variations that were beneficial became more common, and harmful ones got weeded out. “And if it don’t matter either way, then it just keeps on going. Blue eyes, f’r instance, are a lot less common than brown ones, but they see just as well as brown ones, so once that variation turned up, natural selection had no reason to get rid of it.” 

James raised his hand. “You’re suggesting that natural selection had no reason to, er, ‘get rid’ of sexual inversion, either?”

“You’re jumpin’ ahead, mate,” Rouse said. “It’s actually more interesting than that. See, the thing is, it _does_ —but it hasn’t. Natural selection, remember, doesn’t work by how good you are, or even how long you live: it works by how many offspring you leave behind. And our thing…well, not too many of us here are dads, are we?”

James raised his hand. “I’ve got a daughter,” he said gruffly.

“Anybody else?” Rouse asked. Nobody did. “So, yeah. If you pull a dozen blokes off the street—match them to us for age and station in life, if you’re being meticulous—and you’d probably find they had collectively sired more than one kid.” No one disagreed with this, so he continued, “So if our thing is hereditary, you’d expect natural selection to be pretty keen to get rid of it. Even if it’s an error in development, you’d expect selection to favor any variations that could make human development _less prone_ to this particular error. But instead, you can find homosexuals just about anywhere you can find humans.”

A long silence, finally broken by Kit raising his hand. “So—what does that mean exactly?”

“Hell if I know,” said Rouse. “Except it _might_ mean that natural selection has some reason for keeping us around. Maybe there’s some kind of advantage, to a population, in having a few individuals who are physically and mentally normal, who pair-bond like everybody else does, but don’t usually reproduce.”

Now Arthur raised his hand. “But that’s not, like, really true, ennit? You’re just makin’ it up.”

Thomas wondered how Rouse was going to take that—no matter how coarse his language was, he was still a doctor, here—but Rouse just nodded. “Oh, yeah. I mean, as far as I know, there’s no evidence that rules it out, but it’s no’ even a proper scientific theory, ‘cos there’s no way to test it. But—well, you lot had the Padre last week, right?” Someone confirmed that they had, and he said, “And did he tell you the one about how maybe God made us like we are for a reason?” Another confirmation. “Maybe natural selection did too, is all I’m saying.” He shrugged. “Nobody knows. Everybody’s just guessing. But if you’re going to make up a story about yourself, you could make it one that you’re proud of. If you want to.”

Thomas remembered Mr. Carson saying _Nature has twisted you into something foul_. “What good does that do?” he asked Morrow, under his breath. Saying otherwise certainly hadn’t gotten him anywhere with Carson. 

Morrow shrugged slightly, and Rouse said, “Thomas? Was there something you wanted to say?”

Bloody hell. He glanced at Morrow, who—naturally—gave him no help whatsoever, and at Kit, who just shrugged. “I’m just wondering,” he said, “what difference it makes what we tell ourselves?”

Arthur added, “Everyone else still thinks we’re shite. Don’t matter what we think.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” asked James. “You can’t change what they think—but you don’t have to agree with them.”

Maybe for _him_ it mattered. “They can still send you to prison, whether you agree with them or not,” Thomas muttered. 

“Or the bloody Clinic,” Morrow agreed. 

“Or tell everyone you’re dead,” Arthur chimed in. 

Amid other murmurs of agreement from the working-class part of the room, James said, “I’m not saying some of you chaps haven’t had a rougher time of it, but it isn’t so easy for the rest of us, either. Norridge here has lost his career, and I’m never going to see my little girl again, dash it. We can’t change any of it, but I still think it makes a difference if we can say we didn’t blinking deserve it.” 

Syl put his hand up. “I’m sorry about your daughter,” he said. “That must be heartbreaking. But the rest of _us_ have got to keep our heads down if we want to survive. Even if we think we don’t deserve it, we have to act like we do.”

Good _God_ , was Syl actually talking sense now? It was all Thomas could do not to stare. 

Syl went on to tell a story about walking home from work in his “stage clothes,” by which Thomas guessed he meant a frock, and being attacked by a group of toughs coming out of a pub, and narrowly escaping arrest by the bobby who’d responded to the disturbance. 

“Bloody hell, what did you think was going to ’appen?” asked Bill—taking the words right out of Thomas’s mouth.

Syl wilted a little. “I don’t know.” 

“It’s a good point,” Rouse said. “When you start havin’ _ideas_ , it’s a lot harder to stay in your place. It’s not quite the same thing, but—well, most of you know my dad was a coal miner, yeah?” Then he _did something_ with his posture, and suddenly it was a young gentleman in a surprisingly shabby suit standing in front of them, saying, “But if I didn’t want you to know, I don’t believe you would,” in an accent that, in the drawing room at Downton, would have fit in at least as well as Mr. Matthew’s did, and possibly a hair better.

Then he was Frank again, and said, “Now, I kept it a secret that I was queer, at school—and at University—and in the Army—‘cos I’m not bloody _mental_ , but I decided pretty early on I wasn’t going to pretend to be anything other than a working-class lad who was cleverer than the lot of them put together, an’ if they didn’t like it, they could go and fuck themselves.” 

Thomas could feel himself looking at Rouse with new respect, and Arthur looked practically giddy at this bit of heresy against the social order, but Frank continued, “Which went about as well as you might expect. I had classmates and teachers and fellow officers lined up waiting for me to put a foot wrong, and the second I did, one of the few who _didn’t_ hate my guts would say,” he pushed his accent up the register again, to the point of parody, “’I say, old chap, you might have an easier time of it if you’d play the game, doncha know?’” In his normal voice, he continued, “Which is toff for, ‘bloody hell, mate, what did you think was going to ’appen?’” 

When the chuckles had died down, he went on, “And they were right, but that don’t mean I was wrong. I mean, if I acted like them, I’d’ve been telling myself they was better than me. And if I believed that, I might as well go ‘ome and go down the pit with my old man, yeah? Maybe there’s a way to know your own worth an’ still act like you don’t—but if there is, I ain’t figured it out yet.” 

“That’s _just_ it,” Syl said. He looked at Bill. “I _did_ know what would happen. But I was tired of hiding. I fought for King and country like everybody else—why can’t I wear what I like? That’s what I was thinking.”

And he’d bloody well found out why not—but Thomas knew the feeling. Almost every cruel or reckless thing he’d ever done had been because he felt like that. 

“And the thing is,” Rouse said, “if we go on thinking we’re shit—whether it’s because we’re queer, or working class, or whatever else it is—the world’s going to go on treating us like shit. That’s not to say it won’t go on treating us like shit even when we do try to stand up for ourselves—like you found out,” he added, to Syl. “But we can be damn sure that if we _don’t_ , nothing’s ever going to change. The hard part—the other thing I ain’t figured out yet—is how to tell when standing up is worth the risk.” He shrugged. “But here, at least, we get a break from all that.”

There was something in that, Thomas thought. The stretch of rough ocean separating them from the mainland didn’t only protect the normal people from them, did it? It worked the other way around, too.

Rouse went on, “The very first step, in keeping anybody down, is to convince him that he blinking deserves it.” Here, he nodded to James. “Once you do that, you don’t have to keep your boot on his neck, because he does all the work for you. And if you’re really lucky, he’ll put his other foot on the neck of the one even further down than him,” and was it Thomas’s imagination, or was Rouse looking at him, there? “And what we’ve got here, if I can torture this metaphor a little more, is a place where you can maybe take the boot off your own neck without falling on your arse. Or if you do fall on your arse, somebody’ll give you a hand back up.” He looked around. “And, as we say in the business, that’s about our time for today. Anybody have a parting shot, before we bunk off for a fag and a brew-up?”

A short while later, Thomas was outside, holding up a patch of wall and smoking a cigarette, having skipped the queue for the tea urn. He was beginning to second-guess that choice, when Rouse came out, carrying two cups. 

“Oh, good,” he said, and held out one cup. “Swap you this for one of those?” He nodded toward Thomas’s cigarette.

As a pretext for talking to him, it was a bit transparent. But in the War, he’d learned that refusing a request for a cigarette, when you had plenty, was a good way to make an enemy for life. He didn’t know yet if it was that way here, and the tea was a nice touch. He got out his cigarettes and handed one to Rouse, accepting the cup in exchange. 

Rouse took his time lighting up and selecting his own patch of wall to lean up against. “All right?” he asked.

Thomas nodded. “You?” He could play “just two blokes having a chat” just as well as Rouse could.

“Can’t complain.” He took another drag from his cigarette. “Thought that went all right.” 

“It was interesting,” Thomas allowed. 

“Hm,” Rouse said, nodding. “Might have laid on the working-class lad thing a bit thick,” he said, and Thomas noticed that his accent was a bit less broad than it had been when he was giving his lecture. “Can’t seem to help myself in front of the toffs.”

“You’d have to, if you were in service,” Thomas noted. 

Rouse scoffed. “Think I’d rather go back down the pit, thanks.” He sipped at his tea. “He was a union man, my dad. That’s where I learnt the bit about putting your foot on the neck of the next one down. That’s what the bosses do, you know. The haulers ask for a rise in pay, they go to the men at the face and say, ‘we give them what they want, it’s coming out of your pay packets.’ Or they put the men from one pit against the men from the next, or the English miners against the Welsh ones, or whatever it is.”

“Hm,” Thomas said, thinking about the competition between Jimmy and Alfred over who got to be first footman. How Carson had dangled it in over both of them. 

Or even, he realized suddenly, the valet job, and him and Bates. Bates hadn’t _really_ done anything wrong, accepting the job when it was offered to him—either the first time, or when he got out of prison. Given the circumstances, he’d have been a fool _not_ to take it. It was _Carson_ who—

No, it wasn’t Carson, either. It was _Lord Grantham_. He choked on his smoke just thinking about it.

“All right, then?” Rouse asked, patting his back as his coughed. 

Thomas nodded, and gulped down what was left of his tea. “Yeah. I just realized, I’ve fallen for that one more times than I thought.” 

He realized immediately after he said it that he’d just given Rouse an opening to press him for details, but Rouse only said, “It’s hard not to.”

#

The door banged open with a jangle of bells. “Greggs, have you got—oh, hello.”

Thomas glanced over his shoulder. It was Fitzroy, the one-armed shopkeeper, looking charmingly startled to have found Thomas in the shop instead of Greggs. “He’s out having lunch.”

“Of course he is,” Fitzroy said, with an exasperated sigh. Circling around one of the larger display racks, he added, “What are you doing to that poor clock?”

Thomas might have taken offense, but the way he’d said _that poor clock_ , it was almost like he _understood_ , about clocks—and it was, after all, a reasonable question. He had the case fully opened and the works spread out on an old sheet that Greggs had supplied from the shop’s inventory. Some of the more badly-corroded pieces were soaking in solvent in an assortment of battered crockery, from the same source. “Bringing it back to life,” Thomas said. 

“Oh,” Fitzroy said. “That’ll be nice. Nothing like a ticking clock to make a place feel homelike.”

Thomas rather agreed, though in his heart of hearts, he felt it took more than one. “Is there something you need?” Greggs had asked him to keep an eye on things, though whether that meant actually selling merchandise, or merely making sure it didn’t walk off, he wasn’t sure.

“I wondered if he had a screwdriver I could borrow,” Fitzroy answered, taking a closer look at the pieces Thomas was painstakingly cleaning. “How are you with cash registers? I’ve no idea if they’re anything like clocks,” he added apologetically.

Thomas didn’t know, either—his father had hand-written his receipts in the shop, and kept the cash in a lockbox. “I could take a look,” he said cautiously. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, I wanted the screwdriver to pry open the drawer,” he explained, leaning up against a nearby counter in a chummy sort of way. “But some of the keys are sticking, as well.”

That could easily be corrosion as well, and Thomas said so. “The salt air’s done a number on this clock,” he added. “Do you ever open it up and clean or oil the—” He wasn’t sure what internal parts a cash register might have. “Mechanisms?”

Fitzroy shook his head. “Should I be doing?”

“Maybe.” Whatever was wrong with the thing, it wouldn’t do it any good at all to have somebody forcing it open with a screwdriver. “I’ll come and have a look at it when Greggs’s back, if you like.” Some of the gears would need to soak for a bit before Thomas could do anything more with them, so he might as well have something to do while he was waiting on them. 

“Would you? You’re a lifesaver.”

So when Greggs came back—bringing Thomas a sandwich and a cup of tea, which Thomas thought was rather decent of him—he explained about the things soaking, and popped over to Fitzroy’s shop. 

Fitzroy was rummaging through a jar that contained coins and an assortment of other odds and bobs, while explaining about the cash register drawer to a rather weak-chinned man dressed in a _very_ good overcoat and carrying a silver-handled walking stick. “—ought to keep some change on hand for these occasions, but—oh, there’s my knight in shining armor,” he said, giving Thomas a brilliant smile. “ Lord Gerald, have you met Mr. Barrow yet?”

Over the last couple of weeks, Thomas had been introduced to any number of people whose notice, anywhere other than the island, he would have been beneath. But none of the rest of them had had actual _titles_. “My lord,” he said. 

“Charmed,” he said, and of all the bloody things, _shook Thomas’s hand_. “I hope you’re enjoying our village.”

“Yes, my lord.” 

“Apparently he’s an expert with clocks and things,” Fitzroy continued. “He said he’d take a break from working on the one over at the Jumble, to take a look at old Bess here.” He nodded toward the cash register.

“Are you?” he asked. “D’you do watches? Euan tells me mine’s a bit slow.” 

“They’re one of my specialties, my lord,” he said. 

“Well, I can see you’re busy now, but perhaps you can take a look at it another time,” he said. To Fitzroy, he added, “I can collect the change next time, if that’s easier.” 

“It would be,” Fitzroy said. “Thanks.” 

Lord Gerald saw himself out, and Fitzroy put the jar back under the counter. “That was Lord Gerald,” he said unnecessarily. 

“I gathered.” Thomas indicated the cash register. “This the patient?”

While he worked on figuring out how the ornate brass casing came open, Fitzroy filled him in on all the details about Lord Gerald, including the fact that the Euan he’d mentioned was both his butler and—as they termed it here—his husband. 

“Is that so unusual?” Thomas asked, thinking of the arrangement he had once hoped to have with Phillip Crowborough. 

“Cross-class matches aren’t, but that’s he’s still the butler is a _bit_ odd.”

What was he supposed to be—Lady Gerald? “Hm,” Thomas said, putting some muscle into the last of the screws that held the cash register’s casing on.

Fitzroy shrugged, which looked a little strange on a man with one arm gone from the shoulder. “He says his family’s worked for Lord Gerald’s for ages, and as far as he’s concerned, it would be stranger if he didn’t. Suppose it takes all kinds.”

“Yeah,” Thomas said absently, lifting the case and looking at the tangle of gears, rods, and wheels which it concealed. Many of the pieces were familiar enough from working with clocks, but a few weren’t, and the way they all worked together was a mystery. 

“What do you think?” Fitzroy asked, nodding at the machine.

“Definitely some corrosion here,” Thomas said, pointing to one example. “I wouldn’t want to start messing with it until I’ve had a chance to study how it works,” he continued. “But….” The mechanism that led down from the crank on the side to the drawer mechanism was easy enough to follow—a rod, a pair of rusty gears, another rod, and the lever it was supposed to press to release a spring. And some nonsense that made the bell go _ding!_ , but he didn’t need to worry about that. He took the smallest screwdriver he had and freed the spring, popping the drawer out. “I _think_ ,” he said, “if I can find something to lubricate that gear with,” he pointed to it, “that would fix your immediate problem with the drawer. But I can’t promise it.”

“Hm,” Fitzroy said, taking the cash tray out of the drawer. “Perhaps I’ll just find somewhere else to put this, and do the sums myself for a bit.”

“Might be a good idea,” Thomas agreed, continuing to examine the mechanisms. It was easy enough to see what happened when you pressed the keys—the levers turned _those_ wheels, on _that_ shaft, which led into another mechanism that looked like nothing Thomas had ever seen before, and was presumably where it did the sums—though how it did them, Thomas had no idea. After that was the roll of receipt paper, and the bit that went with that was like a little typewriter that only did numbers—not very interesting.

He looked again at the sums-doing bit, and pressed a number key at random, causing a wheel to rotate at few places. Pressing a second key moved the wheel next to it. The “+” button rotated the whole cylinder into which the wheels were set, and brought a new row of wheels into position. So pressing another number should—and yes, it _did_ —

“—do you think?”

Thomas looked up. “Sorry, what?”

“I was just wondering if you’d be willing to take a closer look at it—once you’ve finished with the clock, of course.”

Oh, right, the clock. He nodded. “I don’t mind. Should be interesting.”

By the time Thomas returned to the house that evening, he had the clock put back together and ticking away—although, as he’d told Greggs, he’d have to come back the next day to see what kind of time it was keeping. Still, between Greggs and the handful of customers who’d been in the shop while he was working—not to mention Fitzroy and Lord Gerald—it seemed like plenty to get the news of his clock expertise circulating on the village bush telegraph.

Unfortunately, the next items on his to-do list were nowhere near as easy—nor as well-defined. In fact, the rest of the list was a sort of confused jumble that could be summed up as “fix _everything_ ”: his accidental revealing of his terrible personality, his entirely undeserved reputation for promiscuity, his repeatedly coming to Dr. L’s attention, and a whole host of things that were even more difficult to pin down. 

One bit that stood out a bit from the rest, though, was that he’d only managed to find two friends in the house, and he’d already ballsed things up with at least one of them. He hadn’t seen much of Richard in the last few days. Thomas had told himself he’d been avoiding Syl—who had, among other things, claimed their usual table in the dining room, leaving Thomas to find other places to sit for meals—but, if he was being honest, he’d also not been in much of a hurry to find out exactly where he stood with Richard, now. 

But now—propped up somewhat by his success with the clock—he went in to dinner early, braced himself, and took a place at the old table. With any luck at all, Syl would choose another place—with any of his dozens of theatrical friends, for example.

And if he was really _un_ lucky, Richard would do the same, but at least Thomas would have his answer. 

What happened instead was that Richard dropped into the seat next to him and said, “There you are. You’ve been making yourself scarce lately.” 

_He_ had? “I’ve been down at the Jumble, working on that clock,” Thomas explained. “And trying to keep out of Syl’s way.” He left out the bit where he’d been told to do so, which wasn’t really lying since he’d probably have thought of it on his own anyway.

“Probably a good idea,” Richard said. “He’s not exactly been shy about telling everyone about your disagreement, but the story’s starting to die down now, since there’s nothing new to talk about.”

“Good,” Thomas said, and hoped that might mean that Richard, too, would be willing to leave the matter behind as long as Thomas could avoid stirring it up again. 

Richard went on to ask how he was getting on with the clock, so Thomas told him about that, and Richard explained in turn that he’d gotten a bit of work at the tailor shop in the village. “It’s only meant to be three half-days a week, but I’m trying to get ahead because we’ve the camp-out next week.”

On Richard’s other side, Morrow sighed heavily. 

“You’ve decided you’re going, then?” Thomas asked.

“Against my better judgment,” Morrow answered. 

“Even if you hate it, you’ll be getting a lot ‘taking part in the community’ out of the way in one go,” Richard reminded him, adding bracingly, “And you never know. You might like it. Three days with only seven people to avoid talking to.” Morrow scoffed, and Richard turned to Thomas. “In fact,” he said, “you ought to think about coming, too.”

Thomas gave him a skeptical look. It might, he supposed, a good sign that Richard wanted him along. Unless it meant that he thought Thomas needed as much help fitting in as Morrow did. 

Meanwhile, some of the others started filing in—including Syl, who, seeing where Thomas was, spun on his heel and made off for a table on the opposite side of the room. Theo shrugged and sat down with them.

Richard picked up where they’d left off, saying, “You can’t get much more out of his way than the other side of the island.”

“You’re trying to get him on the camp-out?” Theo asked, and Thomas wondered if he was, in fact, even _allowed_ to go, when he’d be out of sight of both doctors and Theo. But when Richard nodded, he only said, “You haven’t really been out of the village yet, have you?”

“I haven’t,” Thomas admitted. 

“It really is rather pretty, if you like that sort of thing,” Richard said. “And from what I hear, once winter sets in, we’ll all be sticking close to home—the weather’s unpredictable, and it gets dark early.”

Theo confirmed that it was, and nattered on a bit about how the island’s other pleasure spot was a sheltered cove, best reached by boat, which boasted a sandy beach and water calm enough for sea-bathing, on the rare occasions it was warm enough. “And on those days, half the village goes, so if it’s peace and quiet you’re after, you won’t find it there. The camp’s more restful.” 

None of that mattered very much—Thomas had never gone anywhere just because he wanted to before. But Dr. L. wanted him to avoid Syl _and_ take part in community activities; Richard was right that there was no better way to do both of those things at once. “Who else is going?”

Richard rattled off a list of names. Father Timothy and Mr. Braceridge were organizing the trip, and James from Newcomers’ Group was going, along with three others Thomas hadn’t met yet. 

Or, at least, he thought he didn’t. “You don’t know Victor?” Richard asked. “Tallish bloke, red hair, has a sort of excessive-looking beard?”

Now that he mentioned it…. “I’ve seen him.” Thomas would, in fact, have called the beard something worse than _excessive-looking_ ; it was oiled and groomed into two points. 

“He paints,” Richard said. “Planning to use the trip to do some sketching, but he’s not too much of an artistic temperament. Works in the gardens; I got to know him that week I was helping out with all of that. He pulls his weight.” 

That didn’t sound too bad, as long as Thomas could manage to refrain from commenting on the beard. 

“Miles has got a cottage, so you might not have run into him,” Richard continued. “He was just finishing up with Newcomer’s Group when I got here— don’t know him well, but he seems nice enough. Doesn’t do anything in particular on the island—his family sends him money; they own department stores or something like that. Plays cricket, so if you’re waiting to be asked to join that crowd—” He shrugged. “And Henry, I don’t know either, except that he’s walking out with Miles.” 

The food arrived—a chicken stew with dumplings—and once everything had been passed around, Thomas said to Richard, “Suppose I do go—will Mr. Braceridge mind one more?”

“He’ll be thrilled,” Richard said, and spent the rest of the meal filling Thomas in on the logistics of the expedition.

#

With that, Thomas suddenly found himself with a fair amount to do, in a short time. The camping-party was due to leave Sunday morning—immediately after the service—and he didn’t want to leave his work on the clock or Fitzroy’s cash register half-finished while he was faffing about in the woods for several days. 

The clock, as Thomas had expected, required a number of small adjustments before he could get it keeping correct time. Since the only way to check whether those adjustments had _worked_ was to wait a while and check it against his own watch, he had plenty of time to explore the intricacies of the cash register. He also met quite a few of the blokes who lived in the village, since they were always popping into the shop to buy things or pass the time of day with Fitzroy, who seemed to be a central cog in the village’s gossip network, and who happily supplied Thomas with potted biographies of each and every person who came in. 

And in between customers, he explained some of the cryptic remarks he’d made earlier, about not having seen Thomas “around.” It seemed that, in London, there were quite a few places in London for men of a certain inclination to meet one another. “I heard about a place in Soho,” from a visiting valet with whom he’d passed a pleasant afternoon, “but by the next time I made it to London, it was boarded up.”

“Most of the really _lively_ places don’t last long,” Peter explained. “Sometimes the police raid them, sometimes the seedy nightclub they’re attached to goes belly-up for more conventional reasons. But if you don’t mind toffs and can be discreet, there are some more reliable places.”

“I’d also heard about a sort of…gentleman’s club.” That one, Phillip had mentioned. “I didn’t get the impression they’d let the likes of us in, unless we were working there.” And not in the sort of job where you kept your clothes on.

“You mean the Golden Calf?” Peter asked. “God, no. Not unless you fancy being on the menu. But the Trocadero, or the Criterion, you can get in there as long as you own a decent suit and mind your accent, and somebody else is paying for the drinks.” 

Thomas looked up from the mechanism he was disassembling. “The Criterion? Where?” There had to be more than one.

“Picadilly,” Peter answered. 

“You’re having me on,” Thomas accused. 

“I’m not,” Peter said. “I used to go there a fair bit—and it was practically Theo’s General Headquarters, back before the War.”

“ _Lady Grantham_ goes to tea there.”

“Not in the Long Bar, I don’t expect,” Peter said. “And at tea-time, even that’s tame enough she probably wouldn’t notice anything. That’s what I mean about hiding in plain sight—you can’t do anything that would give the normal people cause to complain, and there’s absolutely no hanky-panky on the premises, but if you’re in the know, you can usually find someone who’ll point you in the direction of the current places.”

“Blimey,” Thomas said, still a bit skeptical.

“I’ve heard,” Peter added, “that since the War, the downstairs bar at the Ritz is getting a bit of a following, but I was already here by the time I found out about that one.”

Lady Grantham took tea at the Ritz, too. “I’m still not sure I believe you.”

“Ask anyone,” Peter said, with one of his lopsided shrugs. “There are quite a lot of us in London—and quite a lot of us in service in London. If you’d worked there, I expect your life would have turned out very differently.”

“Maybe,” Thomas said, and returned his attention to the cash register. 

#

“—making a meal out of it for attention, really,” Theo concluded. “You know—theatrical temperament. He quarrels with Thomas, and everyone makes a fuss over him.”

“Mm, yes,” Edmund said—Theo was, in fact, echoing his own observations about Mr. Tanner. While he was certainly the more _vivid_ of the two new arrivals, Edmund wasn’t convinced that he showed much more of his real self than, say, Barrow did. Stirring up a public quarrel was an effective—if disruptive—way to solicit emotional support, without making oneself vulnerable. “I gather he feels that the friendships he’s formed so far are…superficial. I believe a lot of this is a clumsy attempt to deepen them—uniting against a common enemy, sort of thing.” 

Theo nodded. “I see what you mean. The rest of that crowd are getting a bit tired of it, though—especially since Thomas is giving him a wide berth now, so there’s nothing new for them to get excited about.”

“Then that makes this a perfect time to encourage him to try some more appropriate strategies,” Edmund said, making a note of it for his next session with Tanner. “And what about Barrow? I understand he’s signed on to Mr. Braceridge’s camping-party?” Edmund had no objection, but the news _had_ taken him a bit by surprise.

“He has,” Theo confirmed. “Hasn’t said a word about why, of course, but I think Richard talked him into it. He was putting quite a bit of effort into talking Morrow into it.”

“I see,” Edmund said. That was a bit less encouraging than if Barrow had sought out the opportunity himself—still, it might end up doing him some good. “He does tend to fade into the background. Spending a few days in a smaller group might bring him out of his shell a bit.” And there was that egg again. “And, er, the sort of hearty outdoor types, probably more to his taste than….” Well, than Tanner, for instance.

Theo added brightly, “And it gives me a few days where I don’t have to worry about finding him and Syl at each other’s throats.”

That, Edmund had to admit, was a significant consideration as well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: In Group, Rouse discusses the possible biological and evolutionary origins of homosexuality, attempting to frame it as a potentially positive difference. Characters offer various viewpoints on whether or not it makes a difference if they view their orientation positively, since society as a whole does not. Syl’s story is about going out in public in women’s clothing and being accosted by passersby. Not many details are given, but Syl managed to escape the situation without serious harm. Other participants’ responses to this story include some victim-blaming, which Rouse calls out. 
> 
> Also note that Rouse's lecture conflates biological sex with gender, and also does not draw a sharp a line between gender expression and sexual orientation. Today, we would expect an introductory lecture on these topics to clearly distinguish among these three concepts, but in period sources (such as the Havelock Ellis book, they all sort of slide together. 
> 
> Historical note: Rouse’s explanation of the biology of sex differentiation is, as far as I can tell, true to what would have been potentially available to a well-read doctor at the time. The X and Y chromosomes, for example, were discovered in 1905, and went a long way toward establishing that chromosomes had something to do with heredity. (Chromosomes were observed in the 1880’s, and the idea of a gene—a particle of some kind that allowed a particular characteristic to be inherited—was theorized at about the same time as the discovery of the sex chromosomes. What genes were actually _made_ of—DNA—wasn’t discovered until the middle of the 20th century, but the reason Watson and Crick went looking for DNA in the first place was that previous generations of scientists had established that there was something to find.)
> 
> When it comes to evolution, there’s quite a bit that Rouse doesn’t know—but I’ve cleverly arranged his argument so that two of his areas of ignorance cancel each other out. If you studied evolution properly in high school, you probably spotted the first: he says that homosexuality may have advantages for a population, but natural selection doesn’t work on populations, only on individuals. Helping your neighbor survive and reproduce doesn’t result in you passing on traits to the next generation, so it is a thing about which natural selection should not care. 
> 
> However, as this is a major problem in finding an evolutionary basis for other important things, such as altruism, scientists have given it a lot of thought, and the answer (according to current understanding) is that natural selection doesn’t exactly work on individuals, either: it works on genes, and even if you don’t spread your genes personally, you can also play a role in selection by helping others who share the same ones. If you, a spinster auntie (or bachelor uncle), provide assistance to your sister (or brother), and that assistance allows them to have even one more offspring than they would otherwise have had (or allows one more offspring to survive to adulthood and reproduce), then the approximately 50% of your genes that you share with your sibling get a selection boost—a smaller boost than your genes would have gotten if you reproduced personally, but, if there is indeed a gene* for spinster-auntie-ism, it just might be enough to keep that gene trucking along through the generations at a low level. Since most early human social groups (and nearly all animal social groups) are made up of related individuals, this loophole allows a limited-but-important role for group selection, and can also explain altruism, etc. 
> 
> (*I’m speaking of a single gene, here, for the sake of convenience. Current science has yet to either prove or rule out a hereditary component to sexual orientation, but if there is one, it’s almost certainly more complex than a single gene that flips the switch—more likely, a number of genes each nudge the probabilities in one direction or another.)
> 
> Here’s a blog post from Scientific American that outlines some of the more recent thinking about homosexuality and natural selection, including the kin-selection theory: https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/guest-blog/the-intelligent-homosexuals-guide-to-natural-selection-and-evolution-with-a-key-to-many-complicating-factors/
> 
> Another interesting theory posits that humans evolved fluid sexuality because it fosters social cohesion, and that exclusive homosexuality—or heterosexuality—is one end of the range of variation: https://theconversation.com/homosexuality-may-have-evolved-for-social-not-sexual-reasons-128123


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas goes camping!
> 
> (Literally, camping, in the woods.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Note: Period-typical racial attitudes and language. Mr. Braceridge, the former Scoutmaster, is a big fan of (what he understands to be) Native American culture, which would have been very typical of an outdoor/Scouting enthusiast at the time. By his own lights, he’s sincere in his admiration for the ways and wisdom of the people he calls “Red Indians,” but some of what he says is problematic by today’s standards, and his "Indians" are very much the Indians of the White imagination. See the endnotes for more context and details. 
> 
> Historical note: I’m a lot more familiar with the history of camping in the US than in Britain. The kind of camp we see here—a permanent-but-rustic camp in a remote spot, with a deliberate absence of modern conveniences and comforts–is more typical of America at the time, for various historical reasons that I’ll be happy to expound upon at length should anyone ask. Anyway, this is id-fic, so I decided to write what I know, architecturally speaking. 
> 
> If the American-ness of the Island Bunkhouse bothers you, feel free to imagine that the proprietors of the former resort hotel made it that way in order to appeal to wealthy American customers, who found a British-style shooting lodge, with hot and cold running servants, a bit sissy. (American camping and woodcraft books of the time devote considerable attention to how to make one’s camp comfortable but not excessively civilized; this was a major preoccupation.)

And so, immediately after the Sunday service, Thomas found himself with an ex-Army rucksack on his back, setting out for what promised to be several hours’ march, in a chill mist that Mr. Braceridge claimed would clear any minute, but which Thomas thought was more likely to turn into rain.

He was, at least, not carrying upwards of five stone of weight, like they had back in the War. The camp, Richard assured him, was stocked with most of what they would need. Mr. Braceridge had allotted each of them one or two small items of equipment that might be needed if some emergency befell them on the march: ropes, a first-aid kit, an electric torch, and so forth; apart from that, each man had to carry only a share of the group’s food and whatever personal articles he deemed necessary.

Some members of the group had more “necessities” than others. Victor, the artist, had his pack crammed full of sketchbooks, pencils, pastel crayons, and so forth, and had only been persuaded to leave his easel behind when no one volunteered to help him carry the rest of it. James and Miles each had a shotgun apiece, carried broken over their arms, in the hope that they would find some innocent birds to massacre, and Henry was weighed down with fishing gear. 

Thomas was honestly a bit surprised that the working-class members of the party had not been drafted into service as makeshift native bearers, but he certainly wasn’t going to mention it. 

Mr. Braceridge had explained the route before they set out. The camp lay on the opposite side of the large, rocky hill that stood at the center of the island. They’d be circling around the hill, as Mr. Braceridge described the direct route as passable, but “challenging.” Another detour would be necessitated by an expanse of salt-marsh. 

That was another way it was different from the War, where everything that stuck up above the ground had been pounded flat by shelling, and there was no point going around the muddy bits, because all of it was. The only things that were the same, really, were the damp and the feeling of the rucksack straps on his shoulders. But those were enough to have him instinctively keeping his head down, and uncomfortably aware that the stretch of heath they were crossing didn’t have a scrap of decent cover anywhere on it. 

“All right?” Richard asked, falling into step beside him. 

“Yeah—wondering if it’s going to rain.”

Richard looked up at the sky. “You don’t trust the Great White Hunter?”

“He looks too much like an officer,” Thomas said, and then immediately wished he hadn’t. The last thing he needed was to give anyone the impression he had a war neurosis.

But Richard just said, “Hm—I suppose the jodhpurs do have a bit of an air. I was focusing more on the pith helmet.”

As far as Thomas was concerned, the pith helmet didn’t help much—from the right angle, it looked an awful lot like a tin hat. Mr. Braceridge also wore a khaki-colored Norfolk jacket, high laced boots, and a waistcoat with an unreasonable number of pockets. He and Father Timothy were at the head of the group, Mr. Braceridge striding along purposefully, and the round little priest trotting to keep up. Thomas, Richard, and Morrow were near the back of the group, with only Victor behind them. 

“Oh, look,” Thomas said, changing the subject. “Wilberforce has found something smelly to roll in.” 

“I told you he’d have fun,” Richard told Morrow, who scoffed. 

As they rounded the side of the hill, Mr. Braceridge began expounding on the geology of the island. Thomas was not particularly interested, and derived from the lecture only a vague sense that there were more kinds of rocks in the world than he’d realized, but as no one in his right mind would be speaking in such a carrying voice, nor at such length, anywhere near the Front, it did help to settle his nerves. No one else seemed particularly interested, either, but when Mr. Braceridge paused for them to all admire something he described as “An interesting example of hornfelsed basalt,” Victor sketched it, and the rest of them took the opportunity to light cigarettes in the lee of a less interesting rock outcrop.

When they started walking again, Father Timothy loudly and obviously speculated as to the identity of a bird flying some distance away, which diverted Mr. Braceridge onto the subject of the island’s avian inhabitants and their habits, which was at least of interest to the shooting enthusiasts.

In many years of waiting at table or in drawing rooms, Thomas had seen more than one wife nudge her bore of a husband onto a subject of something approaching general interest. “Are they…?” he asked Richard.

“What?” Richard asked. 

“You know,” Thomas said.

“Married?” At Thomas’s confirming nod, he said, “Yes, of course they are.” 

Well. 

The sky did not clear, as Mr. Braceridge had promised, but the rain did hold off until they had reached the wooded area, and didn’t become heavy until they were nearly at the camp, so Thomas supposed it could have been a great deal worse. The camp consisted of two structures—three if you counted the latrine. One was a primitive-looking cottage with a thatched roof like a shaggy haystack with a rope hammock thrown over it. The haystack came down almost to the ground, covering most of the stone walls, and it looked as though anyone taller than the vicar would have to stoop to get into it.

The bunkhouse was both larger and sturdier-looking. It was built of wood and what Thomas guessed was the local stone, but the roof, at least, was covered with modern shingles. It had a central section with a high, pitched roof and a sort of portico or veranda along the front. Stuck to either side were small wings—a single smallish room apiece—with low, sloped roofs. 

They trooped up onto the veranda, Father Timothy instructing them to take off their packs and coats and shake the worst of the water off of them before they went inside. Wilberforce helpfully waited for them to shed these items before shaking out his own coat. Mr. Braceridge and Richard opened pairs of shutters on either side of the front door, revealing glassed-in windows, and Father Timothy opened the door. 

Despite the windows, it was quite dim inside, but the vicar bustled about lighting lamps, and Mr. Braceridge applied himself to the job of lighting a fire. The first task was accomplished much more quickly than the other, for reasons that became clear when Father Timothy said, “Dear, are you sure you wouldn’t like a _match_?”

“I almost have it,” said Mr. Braceridge, who, the light of the lamps revealed, was attempting to create sparks by banging a rock against the blade of his hatchet. 

Thomas refrained from commenting on this, or on whether the fire would in fact be lit before it was time for them to leave on Tuesday, and had a look around instead.

The main room, dominated by a large stone fireplace at one end, evidently served as kitchen, dining room, and parlor in one. Along the wall next to the door ran a wooden shelf holding a washing-up bowl and—Thomas was relieved to see—Primus stove. Packing crates nailed to the wall, between the windows, served as cupboards for the pots and pans, kettle, and other kitchen things.

Next came a scarred wooden table, with benches on either side, which took up much of the width of the room. More packing-crate cupboards held crockery. The far end of the room, nearest the fireplace, had a rag rug—which Wilberforce promptly curled up on—and seats of various rustic styles, from stools made of logs the bark still on, to folding campaign chairs. 

That half of the room had a wooden ceiling, which both kept the heat from the fire from immediately going out the roof, and formed an open loft, for either sleeping or storage. Thomas hoped it was the latter—the ladder leading up to it looked a bit rickety. The dining-room half was open to the rafters, from which hung several oil lamps and a chandelier made from some sort of antlers, not quite centered over the table. Richard, seeing him looking at this extraordinary object, said, “Apparently if you light it, the candle-wax gets everywhere.” 

“You don’t say.” 

“Come on, let’s stow our gear,” Richard said, making for a doorway, which was hung with a canvas curtain. 

The room was even dimmer than the parlor-slash-dining-room, until Richard lit a candle that was stuck in a bracket by the door. Thomas was relieved to see the promised bunks, two sets stacked atop each other like the berths in a railway sleeping car. Each berth had a striped tick—stuffed with straw, as Thomas determined when he poked one—and a stack of folded blankets, most in Army khaki. 

Thomas was undecided about whether he wanted an upper berth or a lower one, until Morrow put his pack on one of the lower berths, saying, “Wilberforce can’t climb.” 

Thomas was as fond of dogs as the next person, but he didn’t wish to be joined in the night by a wet and smelly one. He claimed the berth above Morrow’s. “No sheets?” he asked Richard, unfolding the blankets.

“Apparently rugged backwoodsmen don’t need them,” said Richard, starting to make up one of the lower bunks for himself. 

“Lovely.” It could have been much worse—a trench, for example—but Thomas didn’t think he’d ever understand why anyone would subject themselves to primitive living conditions when they didn’t have to. 

When they returned to the main room, the fireplace boasted a candle-sized flame, into which Mr. Braceridge was feeding needled-sized twigs, and Father Timothy was saying, “Well, as you have that under control, I’ll just go and see to things in the cottage, shall I? Perhaps someone could put the kettle on,” he added.

Richard volunteered to do so, and Thomas, lacking any better ideas, went along to help him with the pump. Father Timothy had picked up his and Mr. Braceridge’s packs and was carrying them toward the ramshackle cottage. “They’re staying in there?” he asked. It barely looked habitable. 

Richard, working the stiff pump handle, nodded. “I had a look inside last time I was here—it’s a bit cozier than it looks. Father Tim figures it was the gamekeeper’s cottage.” 

Thomas wasn’t sure that was much to recommend it, but didn’t argue. The pump, at last, began to flow, and once the kettle was full, they went back inside and began the process of coaxing the Primus stove into life. Fortunately, Thomas had used something similar in the War, and this one, having been stored out of the damp, was less fiddly than some.

Over a late luncheon or early tea of cold meat and bread, the group discussed what they would do with the rest of the afternoon. Thomas was a bit alarmed to hear Miles and James express their hopes that the rain would slow down enough to allow a little shooting, and Henry declare that he was going fishing whether the rain slowed down or not.

“Didn’t you say we’d stay inside and play cards if it rained?” Thomas asked Richard, under his breath.

“This lot seems a little keener than the ones that came last time,” Richard whispered back. 

“I’m going to stay here and read,” Morrow declared flatly, and remained firm in the face of Mr. Braceridge’s suggestions that he borrow a fishing rod, or at least walk along with the shooters. 

“John,” said Father Timothy, “he _is_ a grown man; I daresay he can make up his own mind.” Turning to Morrow, he added, “Only I do hope you won’t find it dull.”

“Thomas and I will stay as well, and keep him company,” Richard said brightly. 

“There, that’s settled,” Father Timothy said. “What about you, Victor?”

“I think I’ll stick close to General Headquarters as well,” he said, stroking his beard. “There’s plenty I can sketch from the veranda, without risking spoiling my sketchbooks.”

“In that case,” the vicar said, “I’ll show Henry where the best fishing spots are. You’ll go with the others, won’t you?” he asked Mr. Braceridge.

“Yes, yes,” he said, then brightened. “I’ll take my bow and arrow. You chaps will be interested in this,” he informed Miles and James. “I learnt the art from an American Scoutmaster, who learnt it from a Red Indian….”

He went on talking about archery and Red Indians at some length, and insisted on Miles and James learning the rudiments of what he said was the sign language used by Red Indian hunters to communicate without alerting the prey to their presence. 

As they got up from the table, Richard volunteered himself and Thomas to do the washing-up. Once the rugged outdoorsmen had left, he explained, “Mr. Braceridge is quite keen on everyone doing his share of the camp chores. Best to keep ahead of it—lowers your chances of being stuck with something nobody wants to do.”

“I see,” Thomas said, though he privately wondered if the gentlemen in the group would really end up doing any of it. 

As they heated the washing up water, Richard also explained, “They went with the others and left us on our own because four is _probably_ enough not to get up to any hanky-panky, but in an hour or so Father Tim will toddle back on some pretext or another to make sure we haven’t paired off.” 

An hour would have been _more_ than enough time with anyone Thomas had ever _paired off_ with, but he only said, “Noted.”

“He isn’t terribly pleased by gambling, either,” Richard added. “Not there’s much that makes sense to play with only two. Last time, we had to play for matches.” 

“Those might be valuable property out here,” Thomas noted, with a glance at the fireplace. 

Richard nodded. “We’d best make sure not to let it go out.”

The washing-up finished, they went over to the parlor area, where Morrow was already ensconced in the most comfortable-looking chair, with his book. The mantelpiece held a small selection of indoor amusements—a worn deck of cards, a draughts board, a few books, and a fairly dire-looking jigsaw puzzle. After ascertaining that Morrow was not at all interested in playing cards, they opted for draughts, setting up the board on a camp stool. 

As they started the first game—and as Thomas tried to remember what little draughts strategy he had ever bothered to know—Richard said, “Admit it—I was right, wasn’t I?”

“About what?” Thomas asked.

“That it’s rather pretty here.”

Thomas hadn’t really been paying much attention. “Oh, yes. It’s nice.”

“I’d never done this sort of thing before—unless you count going with my employer to his shooting lodge—but I think I rather like it.” 

“As long as you don’t swear off matches and start wearing a pith helmet,” Thomas said, without thinking.

Fortunately, Richard took it in good spirit. “No, I won’t get that carried away.”

The played several games of draughts, and had gone out onto the veranda to smoke a cigarette and see what Victor was up to, when Father Timothy appeared, retrieving some bit of fishing equipment from the cottage. “They aren’t biting, I’m afraid,” he told them, mounting the steps to the veranda. “If the others aren’t having any more luck, it’ll be bully-beef in the stewpot this evening.”

Thomas had expected as much—he’d been the one carrying the tins of bully-beef—and said, “I’m sure we’ll manage.” 

The vicar went over to admire Victor’s sketches—he’d been drawing the cottage—and nattered on about how it was a traditional sort of house for the area. “They build them low to the ground, so the wind goes right over it. You can find the ruins of them all over the island, if you know what to look for. They deteriorate quickly if the thatch isn’t maintained, but the hearths and foundations last longer.” 

“There were people here before the hotel?” Richard asked. 

“Oh, yes. Probably back as far as the Stone Age. When Johnson and Boswell visited, in the 18th century, they recorded several villages on the island—I believe I’ve found where one of the others was, near the loch. It would have been a very rugged sort of life, little-changed for centuries, until the Highland Clearances and the lure of factory jobs for cash wages put an end to it.”

He sounded, Thomas reflected, a bit like Mr. Braceridge going on about his Red Indians. Perhaps that was what had brought them together. 

Father Timothy went on to answer a few questions that Victor had about the construction of the house, and then turned to Thomas and Richard and asked, “And have you chaps been finding enough to occupy yourselves?”

Thomas instantly began to doubt that draughts would be considered a productive or improving pastime, and was considering ways to make it sound as though the washing-up had taken much longer than it did, when Richard said, “Oh, we’ve just been loafing, really. We’re not difficult to entertain.” 

“Jolly good,” the vicar said, and wandered indoors to, presumably, check on Morrow. 

When he came back out, Thomas, still nervous about the self-confessed loafing, said, “Perhaps we ought to get a start on that stew you spoke of.”

“Hm?” Father Timothy said. “Ah, well, you could get the vegetables ready for the pot, if you like. Peel the potatoes, scrape the carrots, and so on.” 

“Like” was certainly too strong of a word, but as the vicar went back to his fishing, Thomas went inside to inspect the vegetables. In addition to the aforementioned carrots and potatoes, there were also turnips and a few onions. Thomas was fairly sure he could figure out the onions. “Do you peel a turnip, or not?” he asked Richard. 

“I think so,” Richard said doubtfully. “ _Are_ you finding this a bit dull, then?”

“No,” Thomas said. “Why?”

“You seemed in quite a hurry about this,” he explained, indicating the vegetables. “Or are you keen on cookery?”

“Not particularly,” Thomas said. He hesitated, but it was only Richard here—Victor had gone off to investigate some detail of the cottage. “I wasn’t sure they’d approve of us sitting around doing nothing all afternoon.”

Richard tilted his head to one side. “We can do nothing if we like,” he said. “We’re on holiday.”

Thomas hadn’t quite thought of it that way. “I’ve never really been on holiday before.” He’d had a couple of leaves in the Army, but those had mostly been a matter of rushing to get somewhere the War wasn’t, before it was time to turn around and head back. “Not really something our sort of people do, is it?”

“Suppose not,” Richard said, selecting some potatoes and piling them into a clean bucket. “Should do these on the veranda, I think. We’ll try to keep the peelings in the bucket, but the ones that go astray, we can just sweep off the side.”

Thomas agreed to this plan, and once they had loaded up the bucket, they went outside. Then Thomas darted back in for a big saucepan to put the peeled things in. When he returned, Richard said, “When you think of it, quite a bit of our old job was waiting around for one of them to want something.”

“Well, yes,” Thomas admitted. “But you couldn’t look as if you were doing nothing.” Not on Carson’s watch, at any rate.

“Right,” Richard agreed. “But here, there aren’t many that expect that kind of waiting-on. I’ve heard that even Lord Gerald’s been known to pop the kettle on with his own fair hands from time to time.” 

“Really?” Thomas said dubiously.

“That’s what I heard,” Richard said, with a shrug. “Anyway, my point is, we’re not on-duty every hour God sends here, like we were back in the world. If there isn’t something you’re supposed to be doing, your time’s your own.”

Thomas wasn’t so sure about that. “If you say so.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Thomas said, and deposited a peeled potato in the saucepan with rather more force than was necessary. 

“Well, don’t tell me if you don’t want to,” Richard said mildly. 

Thomas sighed, and wished he hadn’t said anything. “Theo got me in trouble with Dr. L. for not telling him when I was down at the Jumble shop working on that clock.”

Richard glanced up sharply from the carrot he was scraping. “That doesn’t sound like Theo. What happened?”

“Well, I went down to the village to buy cigarettes and have a look at the clock,” he said. “It took a bit longer than I thought, and when I got back, it turned out Dr. L. was looking for me, and Theo had told him I’d been gone for hours.”

Richard resumed scraping. “Er— _were_ you actually gone for hours?”

“I suppose, but he didn’t have to say so.” 

“Well, if Dr. L. had _asked_ him…” Seeing Thomas’s unimpressed expression, he changed tacks. “What did Dr. L. do?”

“Asked me a lot of nosy questions about my personal life.”

“He does that to everyone,” Richard pointed out. 

“Well, I wish he wouldn’t,” Thomas replied, with some asperity. 

Richard sighed. “What I mean is, if that’s all that happened, I don’t think he was terribly bothered about your being AWOL for a few hours.”

Considering the matter carefully, Thomas supposed it was possible he hadn’t been. 

“It’s a bit of a nuisance, having to tell Theo where you’re going,” Richard continued, “but you really only have to do that for a month or two, and all he—or Dr. L.—really cares about is that you’re not sneaking off for a torrid assignation.”

As far as Thomas was concerned, that was even _worse_ than being surveiled on general principles, but he couldn’t have begun to explain why, and besides that, Victor was coming back, so he just said, “Yes, all right.” 

Richard, fortunately, seemed to sense that the time for confidences was finished, and went on to tell an amusing story from his time as batman to one of the General Staff, about frantically trying to arrange a dinner for some important guests— _very_ important, by the sound of the preparations—in which nearly everything had gone wrong, from the Frenchwoman employed as cook departing in a huff over some slight, to the ducks, planned for the main course, arriving, as it were, on the hoof. 

“So there I was, chasing these ducks around the yard, and wondering whether Himself would notice I was serving them bully-beef if I put it on the good china, when the cook’s school-age son turned up, looking for a hat or something she’d left behind in her dudgeon. Between his ten words of English and my ten words of French, with a lot of pantomime thrown in, I managed to communicate my plight. I had to pay him three tins of bully-beef, a pound of sugar, and a bottle of the officer’s brandy, but he rounded up the ducks, beheaded and cleaned them, all in less time than it takes to tell it.”

“Blimey,” Thomas said. 

“I knew I was being taken for a sucker, but I was desperate. The scullery-maid refused flat-out to have anything to do with the ducks before they were ready for the roasting pan, and she was the only one left who knew how to keep the stove going, so I didn’t dare press her.” 

Richard’s War had, indeed, been very different from his, Thomas thought—or, at least, different from the _first_ part of his War. He countered with the story of General Sir Herbert Strutt’s visit to the convalescent home, and Branson’s scheme to douse him in slop. “I was keeping watch on the patients, and missed all the excitement, but apparently Anna—she’s the head housemaid—came screaming into the kitchen that he was plotting to assassinate the General. Probably lucky for him, in the end, that she did, since what he really had planned didn’t seem quite so bad, in contrast. He didn’t even get sacked, though I’m still not sure why.” Perhaps Nurse Crawley’d had a hand in it, somehow. 

Perhaps if he _had_ been sacked, she’d still be alive. 

“Lucky for the General’s batman, too, that the plot didn’t come off,” Richard noted. “Trying to get something like that out of mess-dress doesn’t bear thinking about.” 

“Suppose not,” Thomas said, and didn’t think about trying to get things worse than that out of ordinary khaki. “Anyway, it serves them all right, trying to put on a grand dinner in the middle of a war.” 

“You have a point,” Richard agreed.

By then, they had the vegetables done, and the rain was still in abeyance. Taking them back inside, they rousted Morrow out of his chair by the fire, by dint of loudly repeating the word “walk” until Wilberforce took notice, and then took a turn around the camp-site. 

It was, Thomas supposed, a pretty enough spot, now that he was having a chance to look at it without wondering if they’d reach the camp before they were soaked to the skin. The last bit of the walk to the camp had been uphill, but behind the camp, the hill rose more steeply, with several dramatic boulders and crags. All around these were various mosses and ferns, the latter going yellow since it was autumn. The trees were mostly knobby-looking pines, with a few pale-trunked, yellow-leafed trees that Richard said were aspens. “The padre reckons that the Celtic tribesmen who lived here in ancient times must’ve known to replant as many trees as they cut down for fuel or timber,” he went on. “Same as Mr. Braceridge’s Indians did in America. Otherwise, they’d have stripped the islands bare long before any civilized people came.” 

“Don’t trees just sort of look after themselves?” Morrow wondered. 

“Apparently not as much as you’d think, once people come in and start chopping down some of their neighbors,” Richard answered. “Something about how when a tree falls down naturally, it provides shelter and nutrients for the new saplings. Ask Mr. Braceridge if you want to know all the details.”

“I won’t, thanks,” said Morrow. 

Richard rolled his eyes, and Thomas, wanting to encourage him, said, “I’m not sure I knew the Hebrides had trees, before I came here. Had sort of a vague idea of desolate rocks.”

“Some of them are like that,” Richard answered. “A lot of places are too windy for trees—see how we’re sort of on the sheltered side of the hill, here?”

Thomas nodded. 

“And some of the islands have been stripped bare by us civilized folk,” he added. “At least, that Johnson and Boswell book that Father Tim likes so much says they’re wooded, and now they’re not. We’re lucky that the hotel people wanted to keep these woods here for shooting parties—they did some replanting, and Mr. Braceridge and Father Tim are keeping it up. When they find a sapling in a precarious spot, they dig it up to nurse along in their garden, and bring ‘em back once they’re big enough to fend for themselves.” He added, “I might join in on the planting expedition next spring, unless the tailor shop’s too busy for me to be away.” 

Thomas, who had not thought much further ahead than the next few weeks, was thrown a bit off-balance by the idea that Richard was planning as far along as _next spring_. Anything might have happened by then. 

Over on the other side of the cottage was a queer little structure, like a log cabin that might have been big enough to serve as a doghouse for Wilberforce, except instead of being roofed over, it was filled with rocks, forming a flat surface with a shallow trench in the top. “Supposedly, it’s a camp stove,” Richard explained. “You build your fire in that depression, and then set your pots and pans on top of it.”

“More Red Indian stuff?” Thomas guessed.

“Frontiersmen, I think,” Richard said. “Like Daniel Boone and so forth. And this thing,” he indicated a sort of muddy heap, “was meant to be a clay oven like the cow-boys used, but apparently we don’t have a good source of clay here, so Mr. Braceridge tried building it with ordinary mud, and it collapsed.” 

“Hope there wasn’t a roast duck in it at the time,” Thomas joked.

“Probably not. The woodstove in the cottage has got an oven; he just builds these things for fun. What he _really_ wants is a wigwam, but Father Tim won’t let him cut down that many trees.” 

“I can see why not, if they’re carrying baby trees to the village and back to make sure they survive their tender years.”

Their walk took them over to the stream, which ran down the hillside with some speed, tumbling over rocks and making a considerable racket, then slowed down and spread out below the camp-site. Wilberforce nosed along the bank for a bit, before suddenly scrambling down and entering the water with a sizeable splash. Thomas glanced at Morrow, who did not look alarmed. “Can he swim?”

“He’d better,” said Morrow. 

Wilberforce paddled over to a rock that stuck out from the middle of the stream, climbed up on it, and assumed a heroic stance, forepaws on the highest bit of rock and water streaming from his fur. He barked, a single sharp yap, and a moment later the rest of them heard voices coming up the path from the other direction. 

“—bit better up at the loch,” Mr. Braceridge was saying. “Have you got a fly-rod?”

Mr. Braceridge’s voice was the one that carried best, but Thomas made out a few other things, about fly-rods and deer, and another mention of the loch. 

“We’ll have to see what the others think,” said Father Timothy. “They must be nearby, since we heard little Wilberforce.”

“Over here!” Richard called, and after a few moments of rustling, the rest of the party popped into view, on the other side of the stream. Wilberforce hopped down from his rock and clambered up the other bank, going from one person to the next and sniffing at their trousers.

“Ah, good,” said Mr. Braceridge. “There’s an expedition in the works—track the river to its source, what?”

Father Timothy translated, “If the weather’s fine tomorrow, we thought we’d walk up to the lake.”

“Good fishing up there,” Mr. Braceridge amplified. “And shooting.”

“All right by me,” said Richard, and glanced at Thomas and Morrow, who made noises of vague agreement. 

Mr. Braceridge started talking about sorting out stores and oiling rifles, but Father Timothy spoke over him. “Perhaps you chaps wouldn’t mind popping the kettle on—we’ve got to go around the long way, to get to a place we can cross.” 

Mr. Braceridge took a step closer to the bank, eying the rocks that dotted the stream. “Could make it here—hop from rock to rock.”

“You’ll fall in and catch your death,” said Father Timothy, tugging him back from the bank. Mr. Braceridge didn’t look particularly impressed by this argument, until the vicar added, “And if the others were foolish enough to follow you, they’d spoil their guns.” 

With that, Mr. Braceridge assented. Morrow whistled for Wilberforce, who splashed back through the stream to them, and they started back for the bunkhouse. 

“It’s only supposed to be about an hour’s walk up to the loch,” Richard told them as they walked. “I didn’t see it last time, since it rained the whole time.”

“I don’t mind going,” Thomas said, since it sounded as though Richard wanted to. 

“Is anyone going to ask if I mind?” Morrow asked. 

“You can read there just as well as anywhere else,” Richard pointed out. “The rest of them will be too busy shooting and fishing to bother you.”

“Oh, all right,” said Morrow, resignedly.

Back at the bunkhouse, the Primus stove had the kettle boiling by the time the others returned. They took it out on the veranda, in tin cups, while the shooting-party showed off their catch. “Not a bad bag for rough shooting, without dogs or beaters,” James said gruffly, laying down a handsome cock-pheasant. 

That was the prize of the day—and the only bird in the lot that Thomas could recognize on sight. The rest were a mixture of smallish brown birds—grouse, partridges, and quail, apparently, though Thomas could not have said which were which. 

“Best start cleaning them, if we’re going to eat before midnight,” said Father Timothy, when the tea had been finished. 

“We aren’t going to hang them first?” James asked. 

“They’ll be all right if we soak them in a bit of salt water while we build the cook-fire,” Mr. Braceridge answered. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to eat iron rations when there’s fresh game to be had, would you?”

James supposed that he would not, and the rest of the party set about getting the birds ready for the stew-pot—a duty from which Thomas and Richard were excused, as they’d done the vegetables. Morrow accepted a knife and a brown bird with ill grace, and warned the others that they’d better not let Wilberforce get hold of any of the offal. “He’ll make himself sick on it. Nor the bones—he’ll choke on them.”

“What about the feathers?” asked Henry, pulling a few out of his bird. 

“He doesn’t care about those,” Morrow answered.

“No need to pluck them,” Mr. Braceridge added. “We’ll want them skinned for the stew-pot, and it’s quicker to do with the feathers on.” 

James, hearing that his pheasant was not only going to be cooked without hanging to age first, but would be chopped up for _stew_ , gave him a look of frank disbelief. 

“I’m afraid it’s the done thing here, old chap,” Miles said. “Only fair way to share such a mixed bag out among the whole party.”

With that, of course, James could not argue—although Thomas, having made the same calculation the moment the birds appeared, could practically see him counting up the birds and reaching the conclusion that there’d be just about enough roasted game to go around the six _gentlemen_ in the party. 

Mr. Braceridge finished his share of the birds first, and trotted over to the log-cabin stove, returning to pronounce happily that it had drained as he expected and was dry enough to use. “When you chaps have finished, I’ll show you how the Iroquois start a fire.”

The vicar cleared his throat. “Cook outdoors if you must,” he said. “But start the fire with coals from the fires we already have.” When Mr. Braceridge made to object, he added, “As I’m sure any Iroquois would do, if he were in a camp which already had a fire going.”

“They might need to know how to do it,” Mr. Braceridge argued. “If they’re stranded somewhere without proper equipment.”

“You can show them while the stew cooks,” Father Timothy allowed. “If they want to see.”

Mr. Braceridge submitted to this compromise, and, once he had carried a spade-full of hot coals to the outdoor stove and piled a heap of firewood on top of it, set about demonstrating the Iroquois method. He did not actually ask if anyone wanted to see it, but Thomas supposed he didn’t mind much. He’d likely have found the whole thing rather fascinating when he’d been about ten, and—under the influence of boys’ adventure stories—formed the impression that being stranded on a deserted island, in the fashion of Robinson Crusoe, was the sort of hazard that any sensible person ought to be prepared for.

The first step was the creation of a crude bow, using a green stick and a piece of string. “Your shoe-lace will do in a pinch,” Mr. Braceridge said, and looked a bit disappointed when Father Timothy produced a length of ordinary kitchen-string, before he could get his boots unlaced. 

The bowstring was then looped around a dry stick with a pointed end. This stick was held vertically against a flat piece of bark or wood, with a notch cut into it to hold the point, and the bow moved in a sawing motion, causing the pointed stick to spin rapidly against the flat piece. “If you’ve lost your shoes,” Mr. Braceridge added, “you can spin the drill manually, but that takes longer, and requires more skill. You must keep it going, without stopping or slipping, and soon enough, you will begin to see smoke.”

After another moment, he added, “This bark isn’t as dry as it might be, so it will require a bit more effort.”

Then Mr. Braceridge saved his breath for working the bow. Thomas would have liked to light a cigarette, to have something to do while they waited for a result, but realized just in time that Mr. Braceridge might not appreciate the introduction of a patent wind-proof lighter into the situation. 

At last, the smoke began to appear. “You mustn’t slack off now,” he puffed. “When the smoke comes, you’re nearly there, but if you stop….”

After another lengthy delay, the action of the drill produced a small, glowing ember. Mr. Braceridge deposited this into a nest of bracken and pine needles, and blew vigorously until it caught. “And there,” he pronounced, “we have mastered fire, using the tools available to primitive man.” 

Then the dropped the fire, before it could set his coat-sleeves alight, and, attempting to look as though he had meant to do that, he explained that the next steps would have been to deposit the newborn flame in the stove and gradually add tinder and kindling. “But there’s no need for that, as we already have a fire.”

By this time, the fire in the camp stove had burned down to coals, and Father Timothy brought the stew-pot to set over it. Thomas took the opportunity to light a cigarette while no one was looking, and his timing turned out to be very good, as Mr. Braceridge, now settled into a groove, went on to lecture about several other ways of making fire without matches. From there he moved on to the subject of wigwams, at which point Richard caught Thomas’s eye and mouthed the words, “Told you.”

Father Timothy supplied a mildly interesting diversion on the similarities of the wigwam to the huts used by charcoal-burners of the British Isles at least as far back as the Middle Ages. This topic led on to the construction of traditional island houses like the gamekeeper’s cottage, and from there—by way of a question from Victor about the village ruins near the loch—back to the subject of the next day’s walk, which Mr. Braceridge continued to describe as an “expedition.”

If Richard hadn’t told him that the loch was only about an hour’s walk away, Thomas would have thought, from the way Mr. Braceridge discussed “supplying the expedition,” that it was going to be a trek of several days. Once Father Timothy had negotiated him down to a more reasonable list of items, such as the first-aid kit and a frying pan, Mr. Braceridge darted up to the bunkhouse loft to retrieve an old rifle—“in case we encounter any deer”—and began showing them all how to clean and oil it, even though it was highly unlikely that anyone present didn’t already know. 

It was at this point that Thomas detached himself from the group, drifting onto the bunkhouse veranda and lighting another cigarette. He’d barely started to smoke it before Richard joined him. “All right?” he asked, sitting down beside him on the steps. 

Thomas nodded. “Learned as much as I needed to about rifles in the Army.” 

“Yes, of course,” Richard agreed. “It’s more of the play-acting, really,” he added. “He’s pretending we’re Boy Scouts, and if we were, I expect we’d be quite keen to make-believe that we were explorers or Red Indians or whatever it is. He was probably quite good at it, the Scoutmaster-ing.”

Thomas hadn’t thought of it quite like that, but he could see what Richard meant. “He’d not have had Father Timothy to stop him getting carried away, though,” he pointed out. 

“True,” Richard agreed. “I suppose he might’ve had a wife. Or a sister.” 

“Maybe.” James presumably had, given the daughter he’d mentioned. 

“Anyway, if it bothers you—the play-acting, I mean—I could say something to Father Tim. I expect he’d know how to convince him to give it a rest.”

 _That_ was the last thing Thomas wanted. He’d come on this trip to avoid drawing any more attention to himself. “It’s fine,” he said, a little more snappishly than he intended. “I mean, thanks. But it’s fine.”

“All right,” Richard said, mildly. “Just bear in mind, the general idea is to enjoy ourselves, here.”

Thomas had never found much benefit in taking notice of whether he was enjoying himself or not—since he usually wasn’t. “All right.” 

By the time the stew was ready, it was fully dark, and Mr. Braceridge reluctantly conceded that they might do better to eat it indoors. It turned out to be a good thing, since only the largest and most readily accessible of the bones had been removed from the various birds, and the rest had to be picked out of the bowl as you were eating, and plunked into a dish placed in the middle of the table for the purpose. Morrow repeated his warning about Wilberforce choking on these, and the dog instead got some of the gravy from the stew, poured over his dog biscuits. 

Boniness aside, the stew was a fairly tasty one, savory with the several kinds of fowl, and between them they polished it off, mopping up the last of the gravy with chunks of bread. Once the meal was over and the washing-up done, Mr. Braceridge began making noises about what an early start they’d want to get in the morning, and in short order, Thomas found himself in his bunk, listening to the stream tumbling down the hill outside, and to Wilberforce who was, from the sound of it, digging himself a nest in the straw mattress of Morrow’s bunk. 

The next thing he knew, early-morning sunshine was pouring in the window, and someone—after a moment, he recognized the voice as James’s—was swearing at the Primus stove. Thomas, still half-asleep, automatically identified the sound as “officer attempting to heat own shaving-water,” and had climbed down from the bunk and gotten the thing lit almost before he realized he was doing it.

“Er, thanks,” James said. “Fiddly thing, what?”

Thomas nodded. “I used one like it in the War.”

Then he ducked back into the bedroom to retrieve his shoes, and paid a visit to the latrine. 

By the time he got back, everyone else was getting up, too. James found himself shaving-water wallah, which Thomas doubted very much had been his intention, but he accepted the duty with good grace, keeping the kettle going and pouring out shares for everyone. 

The next order of business was breakfast, which Mr. Braceridge—unsurprisingly—wanted to cook outdoors. Father Timothy informed him that he’d already stoked up the fire in their stove in the cottage, and would be cooking the porridge on it, but allowed him to take charge of the eggs. “Won’t we have the sausages, as well?” the Scoutmaster asked. “One needs a hearty breakfast before an expedition.”

“We’ll want them for our tea up at the loch,” Father Timothy told him.

“Could live off the land for our tea,” Mr. Braceridge suggested. “We’re bound to catch some fish, and if they all get away, we can always turn over a rotten log and find some grubs. Toast them over the fire, in a frying-pan.”

Miles, who was re-boiling the kettle for tea, put in, “Er, I’d rather have the sausages, if it’s all the same to you, old thing.”

Mr. Braceridge continued as though he hadn’t heard. “Or acorns. All you have to do is boil them in several changes of water, to leach the poison out, and they’re as wholesome as anything you could want.”

“There are no oaks anywhere near the loch,” Father Timothy told him. “And it’s the wrong time of year for grubs.” He handed Mr. Braceridge the egg-basket, adding, “If you haven’t got those started by the time the porridge is ready, I’m taking them back and cooking them indoors.”

That got Mr. Braceridge moving, although as Thomas and several of the others trailed after him—Thomas, for one, wanting to keep an eye out to make sure he didn’t try scrambling the eggs with grubs or something—he kept on talking about various disgusting or poisonous things which one could find to eat in the wilderness. 

This time, Mr. Braceridge deigned to light the fire with a match, and, to Thomas’s relief, put the eggs into the pan with nothing but a lump of butter. When they were finished, he slid one on top of each person’s bowl of porridge—which didn’t do much for the flavor of either, but did at least save on the washing-up. 

After breakfast came a bustle of assembling the stowing the gear for the hour’s walk to the lake. All of the truly necessary communal articles—frying pan, kettle, loaf of bread, packet of sausages, and so on—could have fit easily into a single rucksack, but Mr. Braceridge insisted on adding most of the emergency equipment from yesterday—which Thomas had now begun to grasp was mostly more make-believe—and shared it out among everyone. 

At some point since yesterday morning, Mr. Braceridge had been informed of Thomas’s war experience, and so Thomas was appointed expedition medic, and given charge of the first-aid kit. This, in its natural form, was a fairly bulky object, but Thomas calculated that, if it were reduced to those items which there was some chance they might actually need—if someone got a fishhook stuck in his thumb or something—it would fit easily into his coat pocket. He could then tie his tin cup onto his braces—as they’d attached similar articles to their webbing in the War—and avoid the rucksack altogether. 

Mr. Braceridge did, of course, notice Thomas unloading the packet of Epsom salts, bottle of ipecac and so forth—there was even a tin of _malaria pills_ , for God’s sake—but Thomas had learned a thing or two from watching Father Timothy, and explained, “You don’t want a field medic loaded down with too much gear—he’s got to be able to get to someone quickly in an emergency. We’ll need the stuff for wounds, but if anyone’s sick, we’ll bring him back here to—” Should he call it the Regimental Aid Post? His mind shied away from the notion, and he dredged up a better term from those half-remembered adventure stories. “—Base Camp, won’t we?”

Mr. Braceridge conceded that this was so, and when they set off, a short while later, Richard whispered, “Nicely done.”

They started out on a narrow deer-track, at times using their hands to clamber over the steepest bits, and passing the guns and fishing rods up to one another. Within ten or fifteen minutes’ walk, the trees began to thin out, and a few minutes after that, they were on open heath. It made for easier walking, but the increase in the wind was noticeable. 

Partway across the heath, Wilberforce flushed a small family of grouse from cover, but as he had not bothered to point before running at them, none of the sportsmen had a gun ready. “Never mind,” said Mr. Braceridge, when James expressed his frustration with a few well-chosen words. “Plenty more where those came from, and anyway, we’re after big game today.”

“Haven’t seen any deer yet,” Miles noted. 

“We’re not likely to, tramping along in a big noisy group like this,” James said. 

“We’ll separate when we get to the loch,” Father Timothy told him. 

The loch, a ragged-edged pool of dark water, made its appearance not long after, when they crested a small ridge. The way down to it was rocky, and as they picked their way along, Mr. Braceridge explained that it would have been carved out by a passing glacier, tens of thousands of years ago. 

On the shore of the loch was a small wooden rowboat, turned upside-down, and under it was a supply of firewood, kept more-or-less dry by the shelter of the boat. They would use it to cook their tea, he said, but “Last thing we do, before we leave, is gather more for the next party.”

The _next_ thing to do, however, was to make a plan for the rest of the day. Morrow settled his bit of it by sitting down in the lee of a rock and taking out his book, while the sportsmen vigorously discussed whether to fish first and deer-stalk later, or the reverse. Father Timothy announced that he would lead a subsidiary expedition to the village ruins, which Victor was particularly anxious to see, and that anyone else who wished to go along was welcome.

Thomas, lacking any better ideas, decided to join that party, and so did Richard. Wilberforce accompanied them a short way but, seeing that Morrow was going nowhere, soon turned back to Morrow. 

The ruins, at first, looked more-or-less like any other boulder-strewn stretch of moorland, but after Father Timothy pointed out one or two of what he claimed were foundations, Thomas began to see how the boulders were, indeed, arranged in rough ovals, similar in size and shape to the cottage back at “base camp.” In a few places, there were enough stones standing atop one another to give the general idea of a wall, and in one case, a half-standing chimney, with blackened hearthstones underneath it. 

“The chimney would have been a fairly recent innovation,” Father Timothy explained. “Perhaps that householder had a lowland wife, who insisted on one. The traditional house had a central hearth—a fire-pit in the middle of the floor, like a campfire—and the smoke was allowed to drift up into the thatch—made for a smoky house, but you didn’t have mice or bugs living in the roof.” 

While Thomas wondered whether that meant that the cottage at the camp did have mice and bugs in its thatch, the vicar trotted over to the neighboring oval of stone and poking around in the brush near the center, calling them over to look once he’d found the blackened stones that had been the fireplace. 

Victor sketched everything in sight, and some things that weren’t—re-creations of how the houses might’ve looked when they were intact, and occupied by men in kilts and women with shawls over their heads. Father Timothy admired these, but told them that, if they were to travel to any of the nearby islands where local people still lived, they could find houses like these inhabited by people in modern dress. “Some years ago—before I came to live here—I was up this way with a party looking for Viking ruins. We stopped in at a house just like these that was advertising teas for ramblers. Picturesque as you could possibly ask for outdoors, attached byre with a cow tethered and everything. I admit I was expecting to be received by a wizened crone in quaint native dress, but instead, it was a young woman in the sort of cotton frock and apron you’d see in any farm cottage in England, and she’d just had the floor done over in linoleum.” He sighed. 

“A great deal easier to keep clean, I should think,” Thomas noted. 

“She said that very thing,” Father Timothy admitted. “I suppose, if one lives there year-round, one would rather have practicality than picturesque.” 

He went on to say that the this place—though it looked positively antediluvian—might well have been abandoned less than a century ago, based on parish records of tenants being cleared off the back half of the island to create a deer park for the English landlord. “It doesn’t say precisely where they lived—just the families’ names,” he explained. “They might have been scattered all about, but if it was a village, I haven’t found anywhere else it could have been.” 

Thomas wandered off to smoke a meditative cigarette, thinking about families being driven from their homes—even if they were homes he’d not have lived in for the proverbial big clock—just to create a playground for some toffs. 

Though if they hadn’t been driven off, they—or their descendants—would doubtless be none too pleased to have as neighbors a village full of unmentionables of the Oscar Wilde sort, so perhaps it was just as well. 

When he drifted back over to the group, Father Timothy was showing off one of the more-intact sections of wall, and explaining how it had been constructed: each side of the house was made of two narrow drystone walls, about a handspan apart, with peat, earth, and small stones packed in between. “That way, there are no gaps for the wind to sneak in. Interestingly enough, they did much the same thing in building the great cathedrals—though those were mortared, of course, and used worked stone….” 

He went nattering on, going from cathedrals to Viking longhouses, and then to the Romans and Hadrian’s Wall. Thomas had, of course, learnt in school that this was built to keep the wild tribes of the North out of the Roman part of England, and was surprised to hear Father Timothy say that historians had their doubts about this explanation, as the wall would not have been enough to stop a barbarian horde.

Here, Thomas thought about their trenches, over in France, and imagined historians a thousand years hence puzzling over what they had been for. Though, he supposed, if actual _houses_ could be this ruined after only a century, there couldn’t possibly be much of the trenches left for 29th-centuty historians to wonder about. 

“Thomas?” Richard said, breaking him out of his thoughts. “You look as if you’ve gone away somewhere.”

“Just thinking about—defensive fortifications,” he said. “We’d have liked to have a wall, facing off against the Visigoths.” 

“I expect the Romans would have liked to have machine guns,” Richard said. 

“Not if our lot had had them, too.” 

“Fair point,” Richard agreed.

By the time the ruins had been thoroughly explored, it was nearly time to be thinking about tea—an early one, since they were combining it with luncheon, so as not to have to cook twice. On the way back to the loch, they took a circuitous route, calling in at each of the gnarled and stunted trees that dotted the heath to gather whatever fallen sticks they could find, toward the next party’s supply of firewood. 

They returned to find Morrow where they had left him, and the sportsmen nowhere in sight. “They decided on deer-stalking,” he reported, not looking up from his book. “Haven’t heard any shots.” 

“Good thing we brought those sausages,” Thomas said. 

“We’ll need a smoke-signal,” Father Timothy said, beginning to lay a fire using some of the dry wood that had been under the boat. “Gather some brush—dry as you can find it.” 

Since the vicar had proven himself not to be overly given to Red Indian-inspired flights of fancy, Thomas went along with this instruction without complaint. The heath had few trees to speak of, but plenty of shrubs and so forth; they only had to go a few steps beyond the rocky shore of the loch to find what Father Timothy had asked for. Once the fire was going nicely, he had them throw the brush on top of it, causing the fire to leap high and give off a column of thick smoke. 

“Doubtless,” the vicar said, “John would prefer if we flapped a wet blanket—or a deer-hide—over it to make proper smoke-signals, but that should be enough to let them know we’re getting the tea.” 

Next, Morrow was handed the kettle and told to go back along the stream to filling it. “The water’ll be cleaner where it’s been flowing a bit,” Father Timothy said, “and it’ll do you good to stretch your legs.” 

By the time he got back with it, the brush had burnt away, leaving behind a reasonably-sized fire. Father Timothy stuck the kettle over it—resting on a couple of flat stones—and they settled down to wait. 

The kettle took a while to boil, but by the time it had, there was still no sign of the deer-stalkers. “I daresay we can start without them,” Father Timothy said, pouring tea leaves into the kettle, “but perhaps another smoke signal, before we put the sausages on? They might have missed the first one.”

Another lot of brush was duly gathered, and the fire blazed up. While it burned, Father Timothy poured tea into each of their tin cups, and Victor dug around in his rucksack looking for the tin opener for the condensed milk. “I say, chaps,” he said, long after this had become obvious, “I don’t think I’ve got it.” 

Morrow, wordlessly and without looking up from his book, took the can of milk and put it back in his own rucksack. 

“Oh, dear,” said Father Timothy. “Well, perhaps we could get it open somehow. We could puncture it with a nail, if we had a nail….”

They all began patting their pockets, as thought they might happen to have a nail they’d forgotten about.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” said Morrow. 

Everyone paused to look at him. 

“The same thing just happened to the people in my book,” he said, “only with a tin of pineapple. They tried everything. Pocket knives, scissors, boathook. Multiple casualties.” He turned his attention back to the book. 

“Sorry,” Victor said. “Now that I think about it, I took it out when I was trying to get the frying-pan to lay flat. I must not have put it back in again.” 

“Never mind,” said Richard, kindly. “It’s not bad with just sugar.” 

And that, apparently, was that. Father Timothy started fussing with the sausages, perching the frying pan on the rocks in the fire and arranging the sausages in it. “We’ll cook a full round,” he decided, fitting them into the pan. “If the others aren’t back, we’ll have our seconds right away.” 

This was agreed to, though Morrow, after a quick glance at the pan, huffed. 

“Something wrong?” Richard asked him. 

“There isn’t one for Wilberforce,” he said. “He likes sausages.”

Wilberforce, who had been laying with his nose on his paws, looked up, whether at his name or the word “sausages,” Thomas wasn’t sure. 

Father Timothy looked crestfallen. “I’m afraid I didn’t think of dear little Wilberforce.”

“Didn’t you bring any of his biscuits?” Richard asked.

“He won’t want _biscuits_ when there are sausages,” Morrow said scathingly. “I’ll have to share mine with him.” 

“Perhaps the others got something, and won’t want theirs,” Victor suggested. 

“No shots,” Morrow said, and stomped off, whistling for Wilberforce as he went. 

Thomas waited to see if anyone was going to comment on this display of ill temper. 

“Oh, dear,” said Father Timothy, again. “I do feel rather badly.”

 _Really_? 

“He’ll sort himself out in a bit,” Richard said. 

When Morrow did come back—at about the time the sausages were ready—Richard and Father Timothy each pledged a bit of their sausages to Wilberforce, and nothing more was said about the matter.

They’d brought no plates; instead, Father Timothy simply served the sausages onto thick slices of bread, which could then be folded around the sausage, like a cylindrical sandwich, or a makeshift sausage-roll with plain bread instead of pastry. It was fairly tasty—especially when you’d been walking in the fresh air for most of the day—and Thomas enjoyed it all the more for imagining how Carson would react to this mode of dining. 

Just when Father Timothy had started issuing the second round of sausages—and wondering aloud whether to put on another smoke-signal—the others finally came into view, tramping along from the far end of the loch. Glancing round at the sausages—Thomas had already taken a bite of his—he said, “Oh, well—if we put the rest on now, they’ll be nearly done by the time they get here.” Morrow and Richard then had to fend Wilberforce off of the vicar’s sausage, while he got the rest of the packet arranged in the pan to his liking.

They had just about polished off their second helpings when the deer-stalkers came within hailing distance. “I hope you saved some of those for us,” Mr. Braceridge called.

“I thought you were having grubs,” Father Timothy told him, turning the sausages in the pan. “Yes, this lot is for you.”

“No deer?” Victor asked. 

“We _saw_ plenty,” said Henry. 

“Only one up close was an hind,” James added. “Rotten luck.”

“We’d just found fresh spoor when we saw your smoke signal,” Mr. Braceridge added. “Could go back and pick it up after we’ve had our tea,” he added hopefully.

“If you do that, we’ll never get back to camp before it’s dark,” Father Timothy told him. “Besides, doesn’t Henry want to fish?”

With that, the discussion turned to the possibilities of the lake, and who was going to fish from where, and with what rod. When all was nearly settled, Father Timothy said, “Oh, but what are Richard, Thomas, and Ben going to do?”

“Read,” Morrow said. 

“We’re fine, really,” Richard said. 

“It isn’t fair for you to be left out,” the vicar fretted.

“I don’t even know how to fish,” Richard pointed out. 

“Nor me,” Thomas added.

“And I don’t want to,” Morrow said.

But Mr. Braceridge was already having a rummage through the fishing gear that was left. “Here you are,” he said, producing a couple of spools of fishing line, attached to forked sticks with a bit of wire. “You can take the rowboat out, and just drop your hooks over the side. Nothing to it.”

Thomas didn’t know how to row a boat, either—and was not at all keen on learning—but didn’t want to be the first to say so. When Richard gave him an enquiring look, he just shrugged.

“I suppose we could give it a try,” Richard said. “You never know—perhaps we’ll enjoy it. Morrow can stay here and read again if he likes.”

“Oh,” said Father Timothy. “I’m not sure you and Thomas should go on your own.” 

Sighing heavily, Morrow put his book in his rucksack. “I’ll row you out,” he said. “And then read while you fish. But if you think I’m baiting your hooks for you, you’ll have another think coming.”

While Morrow and Mr. Braceridge set about turning the boat right-side-up, Father Timothy showed them how the crude reels worked. There really wasn’t much to it, apart from making sure that the weight and hook didn’t get tangled, as they had to go into the water in that order. The vicar also assured them that the leftover end of the loaf of bread, rolled into pills, would do admirably for bait. Thomas had his doubts about this—if it was true, the others were going to a lot of unnecessary trouble with their dry-flies and minnows and so on—but since he didn’t care whether he caught any fish or not, he didn’t object. 

Next, they had to help get the boat into the water, half-carrying and half-dragging it across the rocky shore, and then scramble in, using a biggish rock as a makeshift dock, to avoid getting their feet wet. Morrow sat in the middle, where the oars were, and Richard and Thomas at the broad end. Wilberforce hesitated on the rock, pacing back and forth and whining a little, until Morrow said, “Stay behind, if you want to.” Then Wilberforce jumped in, setting the boat rocking. 

Morrow waited until the dog had explored the boat from one end to the other and returned to lay down by his feet, before taking one oar and pushing off against the rock. “Are we going anywhere in particular?” he asked.

“Just where we’ll be out of the others’ way, I think,” Richard said. 

“Right.” Morrow pointed them toward the narrow end of the loch, and when they got there, Thomas guessed why. There was a stiff breeze out in the middle of the water, but the narrow end was sheltered a bit by a piece of high ground. Morrow brought the oars back into the boat, and Thomas checked his watch—they’d be able to start back in about an hour and a half, he guessed.

They got out their fishing…things, and Morrow settled in with his book. “Suppose Red Indians fish with these, off the sides of their birchbark canoes?” Richard asked. 

“Maybe,” Thomas said, trying to untangle his. “Do Red Indians get their thread on spools?”

“Well, since the white man came, they probably do,” Richard answered, sticking a bread-pill on his hook. “Here goes.” He dropped the line over the side and began winding out the spool as Father Timothy had shown them. “Any idea how much we’re supposed to let out?”

“Depends on what you’re fishing for,” Morrow answered, turning a page. “And how deep the water is.” 

Thomas waited a moment to see if he’d add anything that was actually helpful, then dropped his line into the water more-or-less at random. 

For a while, there was no sound apart from the water lapping at the sides of the boat, Morrow turning pages, and the occasional bird. “So,” Thomas said, after a while. “This is fishing.”

“Really makes you understand why people are so keen, doesn’t it?” Richard answered, dryly. 

“Mm,” Thomas agreed. 

They sat for a while. Thomas lit a cigarette. When he’d finished it, Morrow said, “Those bread pills dissolve after a while.”

They both pulled their lines up, discovered that the bread pills were gone, and replaced them. After another quarter-hour or so, they repeated this thrilling exercise. 

“Well,” Richard said, dropping his line into the water again, “I’m pretty sure I don’t like fishing.”

“I could have told you that,” Morrow pointed out, without looking up from his book. 

Thomas was just thinking about pulling his line up to put another bit of bread on it, when suddenly the line began spooling out. “Bloody hell,” he said. “What are we supposed to do when there’s a fish?”

“Pull it in, I think,” Richard said. 

Well, _obviously_. But it turned out to be a lot more difficult to reel the line back in, using the fiddly little piece of wire stuck on there as a crank, when there was something at the end going the other way. He did manage to stop it unwinding any more, but now—yes, the boat was actually starting to drift a little, the way the fish was going. “I don’t think it wants to be reeled in.”

There was a trace of alarm in his voice, and Morrow looked up. “Give it here.” 

Thomas handed him the little rod. A great deal more line escaped in the process. 

“I see what you mean,” Morrow added, once he’d gotten it stopped again. “Don’t think he was expecting you to catch anything with these things.”

“Nor was I,” Thomas answered. Richard had, by now, brought in his own line, and was watching the proceedings with some interest. 

“The line seems strong enough, but the reel’s going to snap right off the minute the fish starts putting up a fight,” Morrow continued. Taking out his handkerchief, he wrapped it around his hand and grasped the line with it. “Take that.” He handed the little rod back to Thomas. “Let out some line. A foot or so.”

Thomas did so, and Morrow quickly wrapped the slack bit of line around his hand, over the handkerchief, before the fish could take it up. 

“Um,” Thomas said. The way the fish was pulling, he didn’t think Morrow could hold it that way for long without cutting off the circulation to his hand. 

Morrow reached for the rod with his free hand, then changed his mind. “Not enough hands,” he said. “What you want to do, is get the line down around the handle part. Tie it off, if you can.” 

Thomas quickly grasped what he had in mind—the flimsy little reel was the weakest point in the whole contraption, and what Morrow wanted to do was bypass it. Letting out a bit more line—which stayed slack, since Morrow was holding the line further up—he brought it down around the thick end of the stick that formed the rod’s handle, and wrapped it around several times, before tying it off. “Like that?”

“Yes,” Morrow said, and got his hand out of the loop of line. 

Luckily, he had enough trouble with it that Thomas had time to get a firm grip on the rod. “You thinking, just wind it up around the stick?” he asked

“Yeah.” Morrow was shaking out the hand he’d been holding the line with. “Might lose it anyway, but I haven’t any better ideas.”

Thomas certainly didn’t, either—and at least the stick was easier to keep a grip on than the little wire crank-handle. Holding the stick with one hand at each end, he managed to get the line wrapped around it a few more times before the fish—perhaps beginning to sense that he was in trouble—started really putting his back into his efforts to swim the other way. 

Morrow took over again for a bit, and fared a little better. He sometimes paused a little in his reeling-in, and even let a bit of line back out, now and then, but after each of these occasions, he was able to rapidly wind in a considerable amount of line. 

Finally, the fish came into view—silvery, and about as long as Thomas’s arm from the elbow to the fingers, if you counted the tail. “Look at that,” Richard said, with a low whistle.

“Salmon,” Morrow said grimly. He wedged the stick against the side of the boat, so that he could hold it one-handed without letting it rotate and give up any line, and took a breather. “It’s not happy now, but the minute we pull it out of the water, it’s going to thrash around like anything. And we haven’t got anything to kill it with.”

“Er, won’t it suffocate?” Richard asked.

“Not right away,” Morrow answered. “Even if we can get it in the boat, it might jump out again.”

They considered this for a moment. “Seems a shame not to try,” Richard said. 

“Hold Wilberforce,” Morrow said. 

Richard did so, picking up the little dog and tucking him under one arm, with the other hand on his collar. Probably a sensible precaution—he wasn’t much bigger than the fish. 

While Morrow wound up the last few yards of line, the fish struggled with all its might, sending up splashes of water that came as high as their faces. Wilberforce, sensing the excitement, wriggled as well. When the fish came out of the water, he wriggled even harder, and barked. 

Morrow dumped the thrashing fish into the boat. At that moment, Wilberforce broke free. “Wilberforce!” Morrow said, dropping the fish-stick and grabbing for his dog. Wilberforce barked even louder, and leapt on the fish, seizing it with his jaws and shaking his head wildly from side to side. 

Loch-water and fish-slime sprayed everywhere, but when Wilberforce stopped shaking it, the fish was dead. He deposited it at Morrow’s feet and grinned up at them, his tail wagging.

Morrow picked up the fish and handed it to Thomas, who took it gingerly, wishing he’d had a chance to get out his handkerchief to put round it. The fish flopped in the middle—like a rat that had had its back broken by a hard shake from a terrier. “Well done, you,” said Thomas, to the dog, whom Morrow was picking up and inspecting for damage. 

Fortunately, he seemed unhurt, and the fish—apart from its broken spine—had only four small puncture wounds, two on each side, from Wilberforce’s biggest teeth. “He’ll get his fair share of this, anyway,” Thomas said. The fish would, he knew, have to be shared out among everyone, like James’s pheasant. “He can have the part he already bit.” 

Morrow, satisfied that Wilberforce was all right, set him down and took up the oars. 

“Now we know what sort of dog he is,” Richard commented. “Hebridean Salmon Terrier. Not many of those around.” 

Morrow huffed, and Wilberforce thumped his tail. 

When they got back to shore, the others were starting to pack up their fishing gear. “Any luck?” Father Timothy called out Morrow was maneuvering the boat up to the rock where they could get out. 

Richard looked over at Thomas—they seemed to be treating the fish as his, even though he’d had next to nothing to do with it. “Just one,” he said. 

“Ah,” said the vicar. “Big enough to keep?”

Richard took that one, saying, with a hint of uncertainty, “Well, we kept it.” 

“It doesn’t matter so much about creel limits on a private lake,” Father Timothy said reassuringly. “And we didn’t do too badly—a couple of nice trout, and a mess of little ones, and one salmon.”

“Two,” said Morrow, but he didn’t say it loudly enough for any of the ones on shore to hear. 

Wilberforce leapt out of the boat first, and trotted over to where the others had their catch strung up. “They’re already dead,” Richard told him, following the dog out of the boat. “No need for your services.” 

“Here, take this,” Thomas said, handing him the fish. It was now securely wrapped in a handkerchief, but he still didn’t want to try stuffing it in his pocket, and dropping it on his way out of the boat would make an ignominious end to the day, and falling into the lake because he was trying _not_ to drop the fish would be even worse. 

Morrow followed him out, and they dragged the boat up onto dry land. “No need to turn her over until we’ve got the firewood to stow under,” Morrow said.

And indeed, the next thing Mr. Braceridge did was tell them they could make a start on gathering firewood. “We’ll be along as soon as the gear’s stowed.” 

“Don’t dawdle,” Father Timothy added. “We’ll want to be back to camp before dark. Just get a good armful each, and bring it straight back.”

Thomas was not entirely sure he liked being told not to dawdle, as though he were a child, but the sun was starting to get low, so they paused only to leave the fish with the other ones. They were hanging from a stick propped between two rocks, the stick strung through their gills. The other salmon—at least, Thomas guessed it was; it looked like theirs, only smaller—was at one end, so he stuck theirs on next to it, with Morrow steadying the other end so that the other fish wouldn’t slide off. 

Morrow whistled for Wilberforce, and Thomas tied a knot in his handkerchief so he wouldn’t forget it was all fishy and use it, and they set out, tramping across the heath toward the edge of the wood. 

“I did,” Richard commented as they walked, “rather want to see their faces when they got a look at your fish.”

Thomas, who had been tempted to make this observation when he’d been hanging it up, said, “It is the biggest one.” He knew next to nothing about fishing, but he did know that large fish were considered more impressive. 

“It is!” Richard agreed, with a laugh. “Perhaps it’s for the best we don’t like fishing—I don’t know if we’d ever beat it.” 

Thomas felt oddly warmed by that _we_. 

They reached the edge of the wood and spread out to look for sticks. While Richard and Thomas were grubbing about picking up small sticks, Morrow crashed into the underbrush, and returned dragging a large fallen limb. “One or two more like that, and we’ll be done,” he said, and went back into the underbrush again, saying, “Break it up, while I look.”

They did as instructed, and, when broken into firewood-sized pieces, the branch made a bit more than one armful. The next one Morrow brought back was even larger. 

“I thought you didn’t like outdoorsy things,” Richard commented, as Morrow set about breaking it up, much more efficiently than they had.

“I don’t,” Morrow said flatly. Picking up an armload of sticks, and handing one to Wilberforce to carry, he added, “Come on.”

They started back, passing Father Timothy and a couple of the others at waving distance. Back on the loch-shore, they found Mr. Braceridge gutting the catch and Victor doing a drawing of their salmon, now hanging by itself on the stick, with the little hand-reel propped up next to it. 

Once they’d dropped off the firewood by the boat, Mr. Braceridge got up and came over to meet them near where Victor was sketching. “I say,” he said. “I never thought…that is, I didn’t think you’d catch much with those hand-reels.”

“We were all a bit surprised as well,” Thomas said. 

“Never thought,” Mr. Braceridge said again. “Make them with the Wolf-Cubs, you know, to fish for tiddlers with. You get a pack of Cubs on a pier, and they’ll put each other’s eyes out, swinging rods,” he added, parenthetically. “Having Victor make a drawing, for the Scouting magazine. I’m sure it’s the largest fish ever caught with one of those. And you said you didn’t know how to fish!”

“Morrow did most of the work,” Thomas said. “And Wilberforce.”

Mr. Braceridge turned to look at Morrow with surprise, and Morrow said, “I only said I didn’t _want_ to,” and then stomped back to the boat to arrange the firewood more neatly. 

Richard and Thomas both shrugged a little. “You never know, with Morrow,” Richard said. 

By the time Thomas had smoked a cigarette, the other party was coming back with their armloads of wood, and Mr. Braceridge was putting the cleaned fish into a covered basket. Thomas’s salmon, once Victor was done drawing it, he put into the basket whole. “Left the scale back at camp,” he explained. “Need the full weight for my letter to the magazine.”

He also, it turned out, needed the full story of how the fish had been caught. As they started the walk back to camp, Thomas and Richard attempted to explain. Richard made quite an entertaining tale of Wilberforce’s part in it, but Mr. Braceridge wasn’t particularly interested in that bit. “Salmon Terrier,” he said. “Heh. Suppose some of the boys will like it…but what sort of water were you in?”

Other than that it was the loch, Thomas had no idea, and Richard didn’t seem to, either. Morrow sighed heavily. “Still water, out of the wind. Probably a deep channel. Reeds in the shallows, about twenty yards off,” he recited flatly. “Hooks about eight or ten feet down. Boat was drifting a bit, but not trolling. And you know about the bread pills.”

These, apparently, were the sort of details Mr. Braceridge wanted. He asked a few more questions, which Morrow answered with the same lack of enthusiasm. When at last Mr. Braceridge had gotten all he wanted, and gone ahead to join the other sportsmen in a discussion of deer-stalking, Richard said, “You really do know all about fishing.” 

Morrow scoffed. “Grew up in the Lake District,” he said. “You don’t get a choice.” They walked on for a moment, and he added, “My dad had a few boats he’d hire out to holiday-makers. And he’d throw one of us in, as galley slave, if they were too lazy to row themselves.” 

“Sounds ghastly,” said Thomas, politely. 

“The worst,” he said gloomily, “was parties of girls. They expect you to do every little thing for them, eat an enormous picnic hamper in front of you, and then tip you tuppence.”

And with that, Morrow fell into his customary silence. 

By the time they reached camp, the sun hadn’t quite set, but it was more than a bit dark going through the wood—it was a good thing they hadn’t left the loch any later than they did. As it was, there were more than a few stumbles over rocks and tree-roots, and Mr. Braceridge had to get out his electric torch for the last of the really tricky bits.

When they got into camp, Father Timothy lost no time in getting supper started, and Mr. Braceridge lost only enough time to weigh the big salmon. (Thomas was a bit disappointed to learn, thanks to a chance remark from Father Timothy, that, by the record book, it wasn’t especially big—but, the vicar said quickly, when he realized Thomas had heard, you mostly got the largest ones in rivers.) Father Timothy took charge of the trout—which, he said, would fry up quickly in butter over the Primus—while Mr. Braceridge took charge of the two salmon, for which he insisted only a wood fire, burned down to coals, would do. 

Thomas, deciding that he might as well take a proprietary interest in their salmon if Morrow wasn’t going to, wandered out after Mr. Braceridge, to see how he was going to go about cooking it. He’d arrived just in time not to have to help gut it, but not late enough to miss the smell of the guts being burnt up in the fire. Mr. Braceridge was examining the Wilberforce’s teeth marks. “Shame about that dog getting at it,” he said, glancing up at Thomas. “I’m not sure whether to cut this part away before we cook it, or after.”

“After,” said Thomas. “That part’s Wilberforce’s share.” And Mr. Braceridge was probably lucky Morrow hadn’t heard him calling Wilberforce _that dog_. “We might not have been able to keep it in the boat if he hadn’t killed it for us,” he added. “And Morrow wasn’t too happy there wasn’t a sausage for him.” 

Perhaps, Thomas reflected, it had reminded him of having those picnic hampers scoffed in front of him. 

“Well, all right,” said Mr. Braceridge. “I suppose the heat of the fire will kill any germs in the saliva.” He gave the fire a poke and then returned to the fish, laying it on a piece of metal grating, next to the other one. “The really proper way to do it,” he went on, “would be to lay them directly in the coals, wrapped in clay or green leaves. But Timothy will have my head if it goes wrong, so we’ll grill them instead.” He picked up a rock and handed it to Thomas. “We’ll need three more, about the same size. Grill needs to sit higher. Last time, we used food tins. Labels burnt off. Timothy didn’t like it.” 

So Thomas went about hunting rocks, and by the time he’d found them, the fire was down to coals. Mr. Braceridge spread them out in the depression in the stovetop, arranged the rocks, and popped the salmon, on their grate, on top of them. 

“It’ll be all right on its own for a bit,” Mr. Braceridge said. “Let’s go and see how the trout are coming along.”

They were, it turned out, coming along nicely—several of the others were already eating it. The little frying pan that went on the Primus would only hold about three pieces at once, but, as Richard explained to Thomas, “Father Tim says they’re best right out of the pan, so we’re to eat them as they come, and not wait for everyone to have theirs.”

Another thing that would give Carson conniptions—but, Thomas had to admit, the fish were delicious when they were still crispy and almost too hot to eat. 

Once everyone—including Wilberforce—had gotten a piece, Father Timothy sat down to eat his, and Henry took over at the stove, frying up the next round. 

After the third, and last, round, Mr. Braceridge went out to check on the salmon, coming back to report that they would be some time yet, and Father Timothy set them to peeling potatoes, which he then took over to the cottage to fry over the bigger stove there. Victor got out his drawings and showed them round, and James talked Miles and Henry into a plan to get up before dawn and go out again to try for a deer. “Be quite something to come back with venison for everyone, what? One of those big stags ought to be enough to go round—only hope the cooks at the house know what to do with it.”

Miles and Henry both agreed that this would, indeed, be something. “Only they might want to leave first thing,” Miles pointed out. “It takes half the day to get back to the village.”

But Mr. Braceridge, returning with a report that the salmon was nearly ready, shared their enthusiasm for the prospect. “Timothy will take some bringing about,” he said. “Leave it me.”

When they sat down to their delayed second course, at first everyone was fully occupied with eating, and with remarking on how good it was. Richard told again the story of Wilberforce’s contribution to the feast, which most of them appreciated more than Mr. Braceridge had. 

“Knew he was no bird-dog,” James said approvingly, “but I’d never have guessed he was a fish-dog.” 

“Hebridean Salmon Terrier,” Morrow said. “Very rare breed.” 

Once everyone was down to toying with the last few bits of salmon—and Wilberforce was belly-up and snoring—Mr. Braceridge set to work convincing his spouse to give him and the other four leave for a dawn “expedition.” At last, Father Timothy agreed that they needn’t start back for the village until mid-day. The rest of the party would have a bit of a lie-in, getting up in time to sweep out the bunkhouse and sort out some firewood to replace what they’d used. “You must have your bags packed beforehand, and if you’re late getting back, you’ll have your luncheon on the march,” he added. 

With that, the deer-stalkers hurried to sort out what they’d need for the next day and to pack the rest, and for the rest of them, it was a more leisurely matter of clearing the table and wiping the dishes. When that was finished, Morrow woke up Wilberforce for his evening constitutional, and Thomas and Richard accompanied them as far as the veranda. 

“Quite a day,” remarked Richard, leaning against the railing and lighting a cigarette. 

“It was,” Thomas said. “Exploring ancient ruins, cooking our own luncheon over an open fire, catching a giant fish—would’ve been the best day of my life when I was twelve,” he admitted. “Might’ve been a bit wasted on a bunch of grown men.”

Richard laughed. “Maybe,” he said. “But when you think about it, a proper shooting party—with dogs and beaters and footmen bringing round the luncheon—is just as much of a game. They’re just playing with more elaborate toys.”

He was right, now that Thomas thought about it. So much of what they did—what they’d done, back at Downton—was really just playing. Hunts, balls, even Carson’s precious dinners. “Only we’re some of the toys,” he added. 

“Yeah,” Richard said. “Bit more fun when we get to play, too.” He took a long pull from his cigarette, and blew it out slowly. “Sort of leveling, this place. They haven’t got as many toys, and we haven’t got as much work to do.”

Thomas frowned. “You mean _here_ , or the whole island?”

Richard considered for a moment. “Both, really. _Here_ , especially, since in the village, some of us have got to earn a living and some don’t. But even there, it doesn’t make as much of a difference as it does out in the world.”

“Suppose not,” Thomas agreed, not entirely happily. Perhaps it was that that had him feeling oddly off-balance, since he’d gotten here. It wasn’t that he’d _enjoyed_ being near the bottom of the ladder at Downton, but he’d at least known where he stood. 

Most of the time, anyway. There had been that time when he was manager of the convalescent home, during the war, with a fair amount of responsibility but no actual authority, and then the time immediately after when he’d had no proper place at all. 

“You get used to it,” Richard added. 

Thomas hoped so. 

#

The next day, Thomas woke to a sort of rhythmic _thwack_ ing sound from outdoors. On the others’ bunks, the blankets were folded and the mattresses rolled up. The noise, he decided, had to be one of the others chopping would, and he probably shouldn’t be lying abed listening to it. 

He dressed quickly and went out into the main room to find that he couldn’t have overslept _too_ much—the tea in the kettle was still warm, though the bacon and toast beside it were not. He poured himself a cup, tucked the bacon between the toast slices, and went out to look for the others, carrying his tea in one hand and his breakfast in the other. 

He’d no sooner started down the steps from the veranda when there was a loud _crack_ , and a moment of confusion, after which he found himself sitting down hard, his foot tangled up in the broken board of the step, and tea slopped over his hand. “Blimey,” he said, and supposed he’d better count himself lucky that the tea wasn’t any hotter than it was—and that he’d managed to hang on to the sandwich. 

There wasn’t time to think much more than that, before Richard came running around the side of the bunkhouse, in shirtsleeves and with an axe in his hand. “Thomas! Are you all right?”

“Think so,” he said. His shirt-cuff was going to take some scrubbing, but at least the tea wouldn’t show on his brown suit. “Hold that a minute?” he asked, handing Richard the sandwich. 

“Sure.” Dropping the axe, he took the teacup—now half full—as well.

The broken edges of the board were jagged, and Thomas leaned forward to see what he’d have to do to get out without tearing his trousers. In doing so, he put some weight on his fallen foot—and swore loudly. “Bloody hell!”

“What’s the matter?” Richard asked, taking a step toward him. At the same moment, Father Timothy came hurrying over. 

“Rolled my ankle a bit,” Thomas said. “I expect it’ll be all right in a moment. Sorry, Father,” he added, to the vicar, who had almost certainly heard him swearing.

“Quite all right,” Father Timothy said. “Oh, dear. I _did_ think that step felt a bit wobbly.” He bent to help move the pieces of the board aside, and Thomas extricated his foot—without tearing his trousers, fortunately, but when he experimentally rotated his ankle, it hurt even worse than it had before. He managed not to swear this time, since he was expecting it, but he did wince, and Father Timothy said, “I hope you aren’t _too_ badly hurt.” 

By now, the others—Morrow, Victor, and Wilberforce—were all coming over to gawk. “It can’t be too bad,” Thomas said. “It wasn’t much of a fall.” Although now his backside was starting to feel a bit sore, too, and there might have been a bit of a scrape on his back where it had come against the edge of the step above. 

Using his hands and his good foot, he levered himself backwards onto the veranda proper, so that he’d have the intact top step to rest his foot on—and so that, if _that_ step decided to break, he’d not be sitting on it when it did. 

“Have we got a board, to fix that with?” Morrow asked. 

“There might be something in the loft,” the vicar said doubtfully. 

Morrow hauled himself up onto the veranda and over the railing, and went inside, presumably to check. While he was about it, Thomas propped his injured ankle up on his other knee and prodded it gingerly, wincing a bit as he did so. The others made noises of concern. 

“Good thing we’ve got the expedition medic on hand,” Richard remarked. “What should we do?”

Oh, right. He was the one who was supposed to know these things, wasn’t he? “Might be a good idea to put a cold compress on it,” he said, untying his shoe. “Just to make sure it doesn’t swell.” 

“I’ll fetch some water,” Richard said, and started to dart off, only to come back and give Thomas’s breakfast back to him. 

There was, he decided, no particular reason not to eat it, so he did, though it felt like a slightly strange thing to do with Victor and Father Timothy—to say nothing of Wilberforce—still standing there looking at him. 

In due course, Richard came back with the water—which was _very_ cold—and Morrow came back to report that he’d found a hammer and nails, but no board long enough to replace the step. Thomas was shifted, with Richard’s assistance, onto a chair on the veranda, and from there, he sat and watched while the others swept out the bunkhouse, chopped and stacked firewood, and otherwise tidied the camp. Periodically, Richard brought him cups of tea and renewed the cold compress on his foot. 

That was all very well, but as the morning wore on, and Father Timothy started talking about how he ought to be getting the luncheon ready, his ankle felt worse instead of better. Despite the compress, it was decidedly swollen, and after hobbling his way to the latrine—with the help of a crutch Morrow had fashioned out of a tree-limb—he had to admit that he wasn’t much looking forward to walking for several hours over difficult terrain. 

“Will you be able to manage?” Richard asked, bringing him another cold compress.

He nodded—what was the alternative? Couldn’t exactly call a taxi. “I’ll manage, but it’s really too bad it didn’t happen when we first got here. Could have kept off it for a day or two, if I skipped going to the loch.” 

“You’d have missed out on catching your fish,” Richard pointed out. 

“Could live with that,” Thomas said. 

“Hm,” Richard said. “Let’s see if Father Tim has any ideas.”

And he dashed off, presumably to do just that, before Thomas could tell him not to raise a fuss over it.

Not that a fuss could be avoided for much longer—the walk back was going to be slow going, and no mistake.

Just as Richard was coming back out of the cottage, with the vicar in tow, the deer-stalking party returned in triumph, a stag slung over a pole that Mr. Braceridge and James were carrying on their shoulders. “What’s this?” Mr. Braceridge called. “Thought you’d be all fed and watered, and champing at the bit to get started.” 

“I’m afraid we’ve a man down,” Father Timothy said, and explained about the step, and Thomas’s falling through it. “He thought he’d only turned his ankle the wrong way, but that was hours ago, and it’s no better.”

“He can barely walk on it,” added Richard, the traitor. 

Mr. Braceridge thought for a moment. “A stretcher,” he said. “We can rig one out of a couple of coats. Won’t take a minute to cut some poles.” 

Oh, dear God. Visions swimming in his head of the whole village watching Thomas be carried home like a cut-rate pasha on a palanquin, he attempted to catch Richard’s eye. 

But Richard did not seem to at all realize how thoroughly unsuitable the suggestion was. “There you are,” he said.

Thomas considered his next remark very carefully. He certainly couldn’t express his abject horror at being made a spectacle of in this way, but there _was_ a practical consideration, as well. “Has anyone—er, other than me—got experience carrying stretchers?”

“Practiced it with the Scouts,” said Mr. Braceridge. “For the first-aid badge.”

So, no. “Training for the RAMC,” Thomas said carefully, “it took us about a week of practice before we could manage this kind of terrain without dropping anyone. Steep bits and tight corners are trickier than you’d think.” 

“Oh, dear,” said Father Timothy. 

“More tiring than it looks, too, over a distance,” Thomas added. “At best,” if he didn’t fall on a rock and split his head open, “it won’t go any quicker than I can hobble along. If my leg was snapped in two and there was no other choice, it’d be a different story, but….”

Support came from an unexpected quarter. “I say,” James said, “just carrying the deer wasn’t as easy as we thought, was it, chaps?” Miles and Henry murmured agreement, and he continued, “Not that we wouldn’t give it our best, of course.” With obvious reluctance, he added, “Could even leave the venison behind if we had to conserve our strength.” 

“Right-o,” said Miles, unconvincingly. “The deer’s…not important.”

Thomas felt that they were straying a bit from the point, but before he could say so, Henry said, “I think what James is saying is that it’s going to be a bit more difficult carrying a live man than a dead deer. And we did almost drop that, more than once.”

“Exactly,” Thomas began. 

But before he could say that it would be better all round if he just walked, Father Timothy suggested, “Perhaps what’s needed is a proper stretcher-party. There are several former RAMC men in the village—they’ll know at the pub, whom to ask.”

This idea was, if anything, even _worse_ —but the others didn’t seem to think so, and murmured in agreement. 

The vicar continued, “A few of us could stay here and look after Thomas, while the rest go for help. It isn’t as though a ricked ankle is the sort of thing where every second counts.” 

Thomas was at last able to get a word in edgewise. “I don’t need a stretcher,” he said. 

“You did say you thought it would be better in a day or two,” Richard said, in a tone of agreement. “It’ll take at least a day to get a stretcher-party here from the village. But I don’t suppose they’ll mind if they get here and you can walk tomorrow.”

“I could walk today,” Thomas said, only realizing as he was saying it that he had no real objection to waiting a day to do so—he’d _already_ drawn attention to himself, and at least this way the entire party wouldn’t be kept to his pace walking back. “If I have to,” he added quickly. “But I expect it _would_ be a bit easier tomorrow. The only thing,” he added virtuously, “is that I have to be back in time for Group tomorrow.” If he wasn’t, there’d be no chance that Doctor L. wouldn’t hear about this incident, and the whole _point_ of going on the camping trip was to stay out of trouble. 

Discussion over the matter continued over lunch—bully-beef and the last of the potatoes. Fortunately, no one continued to argue for carrying Thomas home immediately on an improvised stretcher, but some thought that perhaps the entire party should stay in camp until tomorrow. Surprisingly, this group included Morrow—Thomas only understood why when Father Timothy said firmly that, while Thomas had a good reason for missing Group, Morrow and James did not, and would be returning as scheduled. “Besides that,” he added, “it would mean short rations if everyone stayed—we’re running low on everything except bully-beef.” 

This led to a brief digression into how the bunkhouse ought to be stocked with a good supply of tinned goods for emergency rations—they had a few things in the cottage, apparently, but not much—and from there, somehow, to a series of enthusiastic but impractical ideas for some sort of signal that the camp-party could send up to inform the village of whether or not a stretcher-party was needed. 

“If only we’d thought to arrange a system of signals ahead of time,” Mr. Braceridge added, “the stretcher-party could already be on their way.” 

Since there was no danger of that—and Thomas was sure that, by tomorrow, he could convince the rest of them that a stretcher was unnecessary—he rather hoped they _would_ think of something, but no one could think of a way around the undeniable fact that there was a _very large hill_ standing between the camp and the village, which would block smoke signals, mirror-flashes, signal flags, and anything else they could improvise. 

“It’s getting late,” Father Timothy pointed out, when this had gone on for some time. “Perhaps we should focus on our _immediate_ plans.” 

In short order, it was decided that Mr. Braceridge would lead the party back to the village, and Father Timothy would stay with Thomas. Richard immediately volunteered to stay as well, “To keep Thomas company.”

“Oh, dear,” said Father Timothy, “I’m not sure it should be just the two of you….”

“I’ll stay,” Morrow offered, earning a _tsk_ and a shake of the head from Father Timothy. 

“I will,” said Victor. “I expect the others won’t want to miss going in with the deer, and they can do without me on the farm for another day or two.” 

This, Father Timothy agreed to. “But you’ll have to move your things into the same room.” 

“Of course,” said Victor, politely. 

Mr. Braceridge moved on to making plans for a stretcher more elaborate than could be improvised on the spot. “I’ll work on it tonight, and get Sergeant Tully to organize the stretcher-party,” he said. “Lead them back at first light, what?”

Thomas tried once more. “I really don’t think we need to put everyone to any trouble. I’m sure my foot will feel much better in the morning.”

“Better to have them and not need them, than need them and not have them,” Father Timothy answered. 

“Be a bit of excitement for them,” Mr. Braceridge added. “Back in harness once more, old war-horse hearing the call of the bugle, what?”

Thomas, who hadn’t even much liked carrying an Army _rucksack_ , could not begin to imagine how he’d feel about it if Mr. Braceridge presented a day of stretcher-bearing like it was some kind of _treat_. He’d do it, of course, if somebody was really injured, but Thomas _wasn’t_. “They might not be keen,” he said. “And I could walk today, if I had to.” 

Richard frowned slightly at him. “Perhaps ask one of the doctors,” he suggested to Mr. Braceridge, “whether they think it would be better for Thomas to keep off that foot for a few days.” 

That _might_ , Thomas supposed, turn out all right if they asked Rouse, who was bound to be sensible, but Father Timothy, agreeing enthusiastically to this plan, added, “Best also to find out how anxious Dr. L. is to have Thomas back in time for Group. If there’s no hurry, you needn’t make the stretcher-party start at first light.” 

Thomas didn’t like that very much—but, with all the fuss the others were making, he supposed there was never a real chance of Dr. L. _not_ hearing all about it. But there might still be a chance of not having blokes he barely knew dragged halfway across the island and back on his account. “If he doesn’t mind about Group, then there’s _really_ no need for a stretcher-party,” he said. “I can go as slowly as I need to, walking back.” 

Giving him another of those puzzled frowns, Richard added, “I suppose if there isn’t any hurry, we could even wait another day or two, if it would save the other chaps having to carry him back.” 

At this point, Thomas was unsure if that was an improvement or not, but Father Timothy seemed to like it. “Find out as much as you can from the doctors,” he told Mr. Braceridge, “and bring plenty of supplies. That way, we’ll be able to decide what’s best.” 

“Hm,” Mr. Braceridge said. “Need some boards to fix those steps, too.” He brightened. “Stretcher-bearers can help with the baggage.”

Dragged halfway across the island _and_ loaded down like pack mules—this was getting worse and worse, for the RAMC lads. He had, after all, only met them once. He tried once more. “They really might not like being….” He tried, and failed, to think of a polite way to say _press-ganged into your make-believe_. “Only, I’ve met them once, at the pub; we aren’t best mates or anything.” He knew Peter a bit better, but Peter had a missing arm, and the store to mind—it wouldn’t be him coming. 

“Ask Sergeant Tully,” Father Timothy said. “He’ll know whether it’s suitable to ask them to help carry the other things. And don’t exaggerate, when you’re explaining to him,” he added—wisely, Thomas suspected. “We don’t want them getting the idea they’re rescuing Thomas from a howling wilderness.”

“Yes, dear,” Mr. Braceridge said. 

Not long after that, those who were going left. With five of them—six, counting Wilberforce—gone, the camp seemed very quiet. Thomas hobbled into the bedroom to shift his things to a lower bunk, and found that Morrow had left behind the book he’d been reading, precisely in the middle of Thomas’s old bunk, where it couldn’t possibly have been left by mistake. 

After moving his blankets and things, as he’d planned, Thomas decided he might as well take up the implied invitation, and settled back into his chair on the veranda with the book, which was called _Three Men in a Boat_. It was—perhaps fortunately, given that a priest could pop up at any moment—not at all salacious, just a humorous account of three toffs on a river-cruise. They’d a dog with them, which may have accounted for why Morrow was reading it. 

It was an amusing enough book, but Thomas couldn’t really concentrate on it. He couldn’t help thinking of how Mr. Braceridge might embroider the incident—despite Father Timothy’s warning him off of it—and how elaborate the rescue-party might get, and the whole village hearing about it, and, and, and….

“How’s the ankle?” Richard asked, sitting down next to him. “Father Timothy thinks we’ve got some headache powders somewhere, if you want one.”

They did; they were in the first-aid kit. “It’s fine. It really only hurts if I move it.” 

“All right.” He took out a cigarette and lit it. “Er.” 

Thomas closed his book and looked at him expectantly.

“I was only wondering if there was some…reason in particular you don’t want them carrying you home on a stretcher.” 

“What do you mean?” Thomas asked, lighting a cigarette of his own. 

Richard took a long pull on his cigarette. “I thought maybe something happened in the War.” 

Oh. Something like a _war neurosis_ , he meant. “No. Nothing like that.” He’d walked to the dressing station, after getting his hand shot. “It’s just a lot of fuss over nothing, that’s all. And it really isn’t fun carrying a stretcher a long distance over rough ground, no matter what Mr. Braceridge thinks about it.”

“I don’t suppose it would be,” Richard said. “But I’m sure they won’t mind too much—I mean, you’d do it if it were someone else.”

The confidence with which he said that was rather flattering. “Sure, but….” He decided not to say that if he got there and found out the casualty was just some idiot with a ricked ankle, he’d be cursing said idiot’s name the entire time. “It just isn’t necessary, that’s all. It’s not as though I’m really injured.” 

“Well,” Richard said, “it isn’t _serious_ , I’ll grant you that. But don’t you think you’d have a beastly time walking home on it?”

“I could manage,” Thomas said, aware that he sounded petulant, but not of how _not_ to sound that way.

“I’m sure you could.” He took another pull from his cigarette. “The point is, you don’t have to.”

 _Yes, I do_ , Thomas was barely able to stop himself saying, though he couldn’t have explained why. He glanced sharply at Richard, then looked away. 

“You really didn’t—” 

He stopped short, and Thomas said, “Didn’t what?” It was always better to know what you were being accused of. 

“You didn’t know many men like us before you came here.”

“I’m not a _child_ ,” Thomas said. Hadn’t they talked about Philip? And there had been one or two others, besides. Nothing you’d call _serious_. 

“Not like _that_ ,” Richard said. “Theo had never heard of you before you got here, and he knows everybody.” Now Richard looked away. “That Duke of yours is a real prick, apparently.”

“I’d worked out that much, thanks,” Thomas muttered. 

“ _Most_ of us try to look out for each other. We have to, since no one else is going to. You’re not used to it, is all.”

The _no one else is going to_ part, he was certainly used to. “I’m not….” He trailed off. Wasn’t what? Wasn’t the sort of person other people looked out for. Wasn’t any good at looking out for other people, either. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” Thomas said. “I don’t much want to be known as the bloke who hurt himself walking down the stairs and had to be carried home.” That was, at least, true.”

“Oh,” Richard said. “No one will think any less of you, I’m sure.” 

That wasn’t the point; it was that they would be thinking about him _at all_ that made Thomas feel like there was something crawling up the back of his neck. “I suppose. Should we play draughts or something?”

As a change of subject, it was not particularly subtle, but Richard didn’t comment on it. He fetched the draughts board, and as he was setting up the pieces, said, “Before they left, Morrow said he wished it had been him who fell through the steps. Bet you can’t guess why.”

Thomas frowned. Apart from the obvious, he didn’t know what it could be. “It wasn’t because if he had to be carried home, Dr. L. would think twice before making him ‘take part’ in anything again?”

“Oh,” said Richard. “Perhaps you _can_ guess why.”

Thomas very carefully did not say that it was just as well it hadn’t been Morrow, because if anyone else had been the injured party, Thomas would almost certainly have been the one stuck carrying the other end of Mr. Braceridge’s improvised stretcher. 

They passed a lazy afternoon, reading and playing draughts. After tea, Thomas—finding that his ankle was no worse, but his back and bum were stiffening up where he’d bruised them—took a slow hobble around the yard, leaning—at his insistence—on Richard’s arm. “See,” he said, once this feat had been accomplished. “I could have walked home.”

“I’m not arguing with you,” Richard said. 

They had an early supper of things that Father Timothy got out of tins, and retired early. Thomas tried to believe Richard, about the others not minding being dragged out to fetch him, and very nearly managed it, until the next morning came, wet and cold and miserable. 

This time, he was the first to wake. Sitting up and putting his feet on the floor was more painful than he would have expected, but by the time he’d stoked the fire and put the kettle on, he worked most of the soreness out.

Or some of it, at any rate. It didn’t hurt much to walk carefully on level ground, but when he went to fetch more water, he found the stairs a bit difficult—particularly the long step necessary to get over the missing stair. 

In fact, the downstairs journey was difficult enough that he was still thinking about a strategy for going back up, when Richard appeared on the porch, sleep-rumpled and in just his trousers and undershirt. “Thomas?” he said. “What are you doing?”

“Kettle,” Thomas said, holding it up in illustration. 

“I could’ve—” He sighed. “How’s your foot?”

“Much better,” Thomas said, and started up the stairs. He’d stepped over the gap with his bad foot on the way down, so he’d try the other way on the way up, and see if that was better. 

It was not. He yelped, and Richard caught his arm. “All right?”

“Yes,” Thomas said, once he was safely on the veranda. “It’s fine, really,” he added, pulling his arm out of Richard’s grip. “I can put weight on it all right; it’s just if I bend it too much.” 

“Mm-hm,” Richard said, and made Thomas sit down while he put the kettle on again for tea, and brought Thomas’s shaving things. 

Thomas was just about presentable when Victor joined them. “Rotten sort of day,” he noted. 

“Yes,” Thomas said hopefully. “Maybe Mr. Braceridge and the others will decide not to come.” 

“What?” asked Victor.

“If they decide to wait until the weather clears up, we could be back at the village before they left,” Thomas explained. 

“Oh,” said Victor. “Is your ankle better?”

“Yes,” said Thomas.

“He’s pretending it is,” Richard said. 

“It’s fine except for stairs,” Thomas clarified.

Victor considered this. “The path back to the village,” he said, “isn’t particularly _flat_.”

“Thank you,” said Richard, giving Thomas a significant look.

“I never said it was,” answered Thomas, with immense dignity.

Somehow, Thomas failed utterly in convincing the others that they ought to get an early start walking back. Father Timothy, when he came over from the cottage, refused to even entertain the idea. “If I know John, he’s halfway here already. It wouldn’t do to miss them on the way—even if your ankle _were_ better.”

“It is,” Thomas said, but nobody paid any attention. 

Father Timothy did, as it turned out, know his husband—midmorning, Thomas was on the veranda smoking a disgruntled cigarette and watching the rain when he heard a somewhat-familiar voice booming, “Please tell me that’s the fucking house.”

 _Bloody buggering hell_. The stretcher-party, when it came into view, consisted of Sergeant Tully, _Doctor Rouse_ , and the one that Thomas was fairly sure was either Eddie or Tall Dave—in addition to Mr. Braceridge, of course. This was even worse than he had expected. 

Thomas was considering an ignominious retreat into the bunkhouse, but before he could quite make up his mind, the rest of them came out, and the opportunity was lost. 

“I say, we made jolly good time,” Mr. Braceridge called cheerfully.

“We were fucking motivated,” said Tully. “Begging your pardon, Padre,” he added.

Father Timothy made a that’s-all-right sort of gesture, though it did look a little strained. 

“I’ve been saying,” Thomas said, “that I hoped you wouldn’t bother coming out in this mess. My ankle’s fine now.”

“That so?” asked Tully.

“Well,” said Richard, “he _has_ been saying that.” 

They all crowded onto the veranda, depositing stretcher, planks, and rucksacks wherever they could find a dry spot. Father Timothy started making noises about putting the kettle on, and Rouse immediately ordered Thomas to sit down and produce the limb in question for inspection. 

After poking at Thomas’s ankle and turning his foot this way and that—including the way that hurt—he said, “Yeah, you’re all right. Mild sprain—nothing to worry about.” 

Fantastic. “I _said_ it was fine,” Thomas pointed out sharply. It wasn’t his fault they’d all come out here for nothing.

“Yeah, well, Theo was pretty sure you’d be saying that if you were sitting here with your foot dangling from a thread, so I figured I’d see for myself,” Rouse answered. Before Thomas could decide whether or not to protest this calumny, he continued, “If this were the War, I expect we’d wrap it and send you back to your post, but since it isn’t, I’d rather you go easy on it for another day or so. I’d also rather not carry your arse halfway across the island in the rain, so my vote is, we wait.” 

He glanced at the other members of the stretcher-party, and Tully said, “No fucking argument from me, son.” 

“Nor me,” added Eddie-or-Tall-Dave. 

“Thomas?” asked Rouse. 

Oh, _now_ he was allowed to have an opinion? “I can walk, but if the rest don’t want to go today, I don’t mind. As long as it isn’t a problem about my missing Group,” he added. 

Rouse shook his head. “Nah. Just make sure you go the next time the topic comes around.” 

Thomas was rather hoping to be _done_ with Group before any topics had time to come around twice, but there wasn’t much point arguing. 

No one else had any objections, either, and most of the group wandered into the bunkhouse to see how the kettle was coming along. Tully, however, settled his bulk into the chair that Rouse had just vacated, and took out a flask. “All right, lad?” he asked.

“Fine,” Thomas said, wondering why people kept asking him that—especially if they weren’t going to believe him when he answered. “You heard the officer,” he added. 

“I didn’t mean your fucking ankle,” Tully said, taking a swig from the flask. He then held it out toward Thomas. “Rum ration? Buck you up a bit.”

Thomas took it; the contents were something much more pleasant—and expensive—than Army-issue rum. “There’s nothing else wrong with me,” he said, handing the flask back. 

“Yeah,” said Tully, his voice laden with skepticism. He took another swig from the flask and tucked it away. “See, son, the thing is, I’ve been in the Army since before you were fucking born.” He reached toward the flask, inside his jacket, then pulled his hand back.

“And?” Thomas said. _And I’m not your fucking son_. 

“And you’re not the first lad I’ve met who says he’s _fine_ like if he keeps on saying it long enough, maybe it’ll fucking come true.”

 _But we’re not so sure underneath, are we?_ Thomas remembered telling Jimmy, and then he was on his feet, so abruptly that the first thing he noticed about it was the pain in his ankle. 

And he wasn’t _stupid_ ; he realized that what he’d just done would seem to Tully like confirmation that his shot had hit home. He limped over to the railing and leaned on it, lighting a cigarette. He managed to keep his hands from shaking, which was at least something.

“Well,” Tully said slowly, taking the flask back out of his jacket. “Don’t tell me about it if you don’t fucking want to.” He took another drink and offered Thomas the flask again. “Want some more?”

“No,” Thomas said. “Thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” He inched his chair closer to the railing, with an audible _scrape_ and propped his feet up on it. “Never been up here before,” he noted, and took another swig from the flask. “Reckon it’s nicer when it’s not so fucking wet, eh?”

“It’s all right,” Thomas said stiffly. “There’s a lake up that way.” He jerked his chin in the relevant direction. 

“Aye, I’ve heard about the lake,” Tully said mildly, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. 

“Look,” Thomas said. “I’ve—my entire life, I’ve been—when you’ve kept something a secret your entire life, you can’t just suddenly _be_ somewhere that everyone knows it, and have that be all right. _Nobody_ would be all right.” 

Tully took a long pull from his cigarette. “Course not, son.” He blew something that looked like a vague attempt at a smoke ring. “So why’re you pretending you are?”

Thomas couldn’t think of any response other than to tell him to shut it, and since he wasn’t entirely sure that the fact that neither of them was in the Army any longer was enough to let him get away with saying that to a Master Sergeant, he said nothing. 

“Now,” Tully continued, “I ain’t saying there ain’t times when a man’s got to be fine whether he is or not, if you follow. Like Rouse said, if this was the fucking War, you’d be back at your post. But.” He took another drag from his cigarette. “Your war’s over.”

Once again, Thomas said nothing.

“And,” Tully added, “If you’ve got nothing better to do, you could fetch an old man a cup of tea.”

Feeling like he’d been let off easily, Thomas fetched him a cup of tea. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes: 
> 
> We may associate recreational camping with escape from the hectic, high-tech, modern world…but people in the 1910’s and 1920’s were also living in a high-tech, high-stress world, and wanted to get away from it! Here’s an example of a book from the period about camping in Britain: https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/007654767
> 
> More insight into the British camping culture of the time can be gained from this pamphlet, https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/000545954, about camping for schools and youth groups. Camping was viewed as being healthy, educational, and morally uplifting for young people—especially boys—of all social classes. For that reason, it seems likely that Mr. Braceridge would have little trouble convincing Dr. L. that camping outings would be a useful addition to the course of treatment on the Island. 
> 
> Now, on to the problematic stuff: Scouting, and the outdoor culture of the times, was very heavily bound up with colonial imperialism and a sort of condescending admiration of “primitive” peoples, especially Indigenous Americans. While Scouting leaders of the period considered themselves to be admirers of what they usually called "the red man," they tended to paint all of Native America as a single, vanished culture—and to position White children as the inheritors of that culture. And all of it was happening while actual, living Native Americans were being systematically oppressed. It's a whole primordial ooze of imperialism, cultural appropriation, and stereotyping--mixed in with elements we still consider positive today, like learning from other cultures and respecting nature. 
> 
> The founding myth of Scouting is essentially this: Lord Baden-Powell was in South Africa, fighting with other white European men over which group of them was going to get to steal the place and oppress its inhabitants. While there, he met Frederick Russell Burnham, a white American, who taught him Native American woodcraft, scouting, and reconnaissance skills. Burnham learned these skills while growing up on Dakota Sioux reservation (his father was a minister there) and by fighting the Apache in the US Army. In the 1880’s, believing that the North American continent had been successfully stolen, he went to Africa to help the British finish stealing that. Once they’d done so, Baden-Powell wrote a book about the military applications of what Burnham taught him, and, finding that it was being heavily used by youth organizations, re-wrote it with most of the military stuff taken out and the Indian stuff emphasized, as Scouting for Boys, the founding text of the Scout movement, and then founded the British Boy Scouts. Burnham went back to America and helped found the Boy Scouts of America. 
> 
> That said, Scouting did develop young people’s knowledge and understanding of the outdoors, and ethics of wilderness conservation. It also provided generations with cherished memories and experiences--some of which involved imitating Native Americans in ways now more widely understood to be offensive. Scouting organizations today are still working to disentangle themselves from this problematic legacy. 
> 
> It’s difficult to draw attention to these issues in the text of the story, because Thomas, as the viewpoint character, would be unaware of them, but I’ve attempted to gesture in their direction through Thomas’s class-consciousness and Father Timothy’s interest in the prehistory of the British Isles. That’s also why I told you what I told you in the chapter 2 note about the Highland Clearances—because the history sure does rhyme a lot. 
> 
> Period sources about Scouting: 
> 
> An early edition of the Boy Scouting manual: http://www.thedump.scoutscan.com/yarns00-28.pdf
> 
> “The Birch-Bark Roll of the Woodcraft Indians,” a 1907 book by the leader of a Canadian youth outdoor organization. Influenced Lord Baden-Powell in his development of the British Boy Scouts.  
> http://etsetoninstitute.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/Birch_Bark_Roll_of_Woodcraft.pdf
> 
> The fishing devices that Thomas and Richard use are described in The American Boy’s Handy Book, by Daniel Carter Beard, who also influenced the Scouting movement. (https://www.google.com/books/edition/What_to_Do_and_how_to_Do_it/VpICAAAAYAAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1&printsec=frontcover). 
> 
> On fishing: Salmon can be found in Scottish lochs, including those in the Hebrides, year-round. (As most people have heard, salmon are born in fresh water, migrate out to sea, and then return to freshwater—often, but not always, to their birthplace—to breed. However, some salmon stay in fresh water for their entire lives—no one knows exactly why, and genetic studies have been done showing no difference between the salmon that migrate and the ones that don’t. Lochs in the Hebrides are considered some of the best places to find lake salmon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas tries his hand at some new lines of work.

The next day—which was merely damp and chilly, not freezing and pouring—Thomas was allowed to walk back to the village under his own power, though Rouse did insist on calling a halt every mile or so in order to examine Thomas’s ankle. 

Thomas more than half expected that as soon as he’d got back, he’d be called to account for…well, for _something_ , but it didn’t happen. He was restless all evening waiting for it, and the next day, when Dr. L. put in a rare appearance at Morning Meeting, he felt as though the thing crawling up the back of his neck had grown several extra legs. When the meeting ended without incident, he found himself hanging about the room waiting for the hammer to drop.

“Mr. Barrow,” Dr. L. said. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, sir,” Thomas answered, and waited.

“Hm. Good to see you up and about.” He took a few steps toward the door, then paused. “Apart from the accident, did you enjoy the trip?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good.” With that, he left—and Thomas, somehow, felt even more off-balance. 

Unable to settle down, that afternoon he informed Theo that he was going down to the village to see how Peter’s cash register was doing. “Only if there’s anything wrong with it, I may be some time,” he added. With any luck, it would be misbehaving again, and Thomas would be productively occupied until teatime.

Theo made no objection to this, and Thomas made good his escape. 

Peter was puttering around the shop when he got there, rearranging some things on a shelf. “Thomas!” he said. “Glad to see you’re back in one piece.” 

“Thanks. Cash register giving you any more trouble?”

Peter shook his head. “Working perfectly,” he said. “Ta again, for that.” He circled back round the counter and pressed the button that caused the drawer to shoot open, with a merry _ding!_ “I’d have volunteered for the rescue-party, but, you know.” He nodded toward his missing arm. 

“That’s all right,” Thomas said. “I didn’t really need rescuing. The others insisted on making a fuss over it.” 

“Well,” said Peter, “no harm in being fussed over.”

Thomas blinked.

“Is there?” Peter asked, looking a bit puzzled. 

Of course there was. “I’d rather…blend in,” Thomas managed to say. 

Peter _tsk_ ’d and raised an eyebrow. “Think you’re doomed to disappointment, there.” 

While Thomas was panicking over precisely what he’d done to draw attention to himself _now_ , and wishing he’d taken his chances staying up at the house, Peter took out a couple of cigarettes and lit them, handing one to Thomas. 

“Sorry,” he said. “That came out wrong. I only meant because you’re….” He made a sort of up-and-down gesture in Thomas’s direction. 

“I’m what?” Thomas asked. 

“ _Unfairly_ attractive,” Peter said. “Sorry, did you really not know?”

It wasn’t that Thomas didn’t _know_ , exactly. It was only that it had never been particularly relevant before, except inasmuch as footmen were generally supposed to be handsome. Unless they were _Alfred_ , of course. “Oh,” he said, as several things about the last few weeks popped into place. What Syl had meant about other people having to make an effort, for one thing. And the fact that he was more popular here than he’d ever been in his life. “That.” 

“Yes, _that_ ,” Peter said. “You look like a bloody film star.” 

And that was why it felt like he was being watched all of the time—because he _was_ , but it wasn’t a matter of them trying to catch him at something. It was more like…well, like the way gentlemen would orbit around the prettiest lady at a ball. Thomas wasn’t precisely thrilled with the comparison, but it was certainly a relief to know that it wasn’t anything he was _doing_. “Er, right,” he said. “I mean, kind of you to say.” 

“I rather assumed you heard that sort of thing all the time,” Peter noted.

“I really don’t,” Thomas answered. Hesitating a moment, he decided he might as well ask. “And…is that what Syl doesn’t like about me?”

Wincing a little, Peter nodded. “Syl’s…I knew him a bit, before the War. He used to be in service. He’s a lot of fun, but…not exactly the sort that leaves a trail of broken hearts in his wake. Gets a bit fed up seeing the tall, dark, and handsome types get all the attention.”

Thomas could almost relate to that—at least, if it was anything like seeing the rustic and gormless being able to parade their affections in front of all and sundry. 

“It’s wrong of him to take it out on you, of course,” Peter added. “He has a bit of a dramatic temperament, and manufacturing a public quarrel with someone is a good way to make himself the center of attention. He’s probably kicking himself he didn’t think of spraining his ankle.”

First Morrow, now Syl. Apparently the ankle injury had been wasted on him. “I wouldn’t have minded leaving it to someone else.”

“It’s a shame you can’t give things like that away to someone who will appreciate them,” Peter agreed. Stubbing out his cigarette in a saucer, he added, “Say, are you in a hurry?”

“Not at all,” Thomas answered. 

“Perhaps you could give me a hand shifting some stock. Nothing difficult—it’s just one of those things that takes more than twice as long if you have to do it one-handed.”

Thomas, remembering what Richard had said about _looking out for each other_ , agreed. The work was much less interesting than intricacies of the cash register, but it was something to do, and Peter was sort of oddly comfortable to be around. Oddly, because he was _nice_ , and nice people didn’t usually like Thomas—or vice-versa—but there it was. 

“Amazing what they put in tins these days, isn’t it?” Peter commented, as they unpacked a crate of tinned goods—Thomas standing on a stepstool to put the things on the high shelves, and Peter handing them up to him. “Lucky for us—I’d never had to cook for myself before I moved in above the shop, and there’s a lot of us here in the same boat. Can’t go too far wrong opening up a tin.” 

“I suppose not,” Thomas agreed. As long as you didn’t forget the tin opener, at any rate. 

“I am getting a bit better at cooking,” Peter added. “But it’s not as easy as you’d think.”

A few days later, Thomas had reason to find that out for himself. Theo had mentioned that, since he hadn’t had a work assignment the week of the camping trip, he could expect something more substantial the following week. What he got was kitchen duty. 

“Well,” Thomas said to Richard, when they filed out of Morning Meeting, “I suppose it’s better than the barn.”

“Sort of,” said Richard. “At least with barn work, you’re done by the middle of the morning.” 

He had a point. After several weeks of doing next to nothing, it was a bit of a shock to once again be tied to the never-ending cycle of one meal after another—and it turned out that preparing meals was considerably more work than serving and standing around looking decorative while other people ate them. Thomas’s assignment was to help with tea and dinner, which hadn’t sounded _too_ bad, but work on tea started as soon as the lunch dishes were dried, and preparations for dinner started even before tea was over. 

Chapin, who ran the kitchen, was very nearly as shouty as Mrs. Patmore—perhaps there was something about cooking which caused it—but fortunately, as temporary kitchen help, Thomas was largely beneath his notice. He mostly found himself washing dishes, paring vegetables, and keeping out of the way of the people who knew what they were doing. It reminded him, in a way, of his early days in the Army, when he’d been running around a hospital in France, mopping floors and washing bedpans, before he’d gotten himself sent to the trenches, and realized what a terrible mistake he’d made. 

“Now I understand,” he told Richard, one day when he was waiting for it to be time to start working, “why the kitchen maid back at Downton was so fascinated with me. I must’ve been the sole bright spot in the ceaseless drudgery of her existence.”

“I’m sure you were,” said Richard, clearly humoring him. “You do seem a bit less…tightly wound, though. Perhaps hard work suits you.”

Another thing they’d be astonished to hear at Downton, but now that he mentioned it, Thomas wondered if he was right. He couldn’t say he enjoyed the work, but with a job that took up a substantial part of his day, he was spending a lot less time worrying about whether he was doing what he was supposed to be doing or not. 

For that part of it, he was almost—but not quite—sorry when the week ended, and he was put back on coal-scuttle duty. 

#

A week or so later, Thomas was in the smoking room, reading a newspaper. 

“ _There_ you are,” Kit said, sounding as though he’d tracked Thomas down in some obscure place.

“Here I am,” Thomas agreed. “Here” was the smoking room, where he was restlessly trying to catch up on last week’s newspapers. It was one of the places he most often was, so he wasn’t sure why Kit thought his presence was noteworthy—unless something was afoot. 

And it seemed that something was. Kit took out his cigarette case and offered Thomas one, saying, “I was hoping you’d help me with something.” 

Something that required an exceedingly mild bribe? Thomas was interested. “What’s that?” he asked, allowing Kit to light the cigarette.

“Well,” Kit said, settling into the chair opposite Thomas’s and pulling it a bit closer, so their knees almost touched. “I bought a printing press.” 

Thomas cocked his head to one side. “Congratulations?”

“Just a small one, you understand. Secondhand. It came on the boat yesterday.” 

Thomas nodded. He’d been helping Peter yesterday, with getting stock into the shop, but he’d noticed Kit watching a large and apparently heavy crate being unloaded. “I see,” Thomas said. When no more information was forthcoming, he added, “Why?”

“Well, it was sort of your idea, really. When we talked about my career, and you suggested I could write up some of our local news—I thought, why not? Smaller villages than this have a weekly paper.”

“Ah.” Thomas wasn’t entirely sure that the denizens of _this_ particular village would be quite as keen as others to see their names and doings committed to print, but if Kit had already bought the press, there wasn’t much point saying so. “Should be interesting.”

“I think so,” Kit agreed. “But there is one difficulty.” 

Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t actually know how to operate a printing press.” 

Did he think Thomas _did_? “I’m afraid I don’t, either.”

“But you know about clocks, and cash registers, and so on. And I’ve _seen_ it done, so I know how it ought to look when it’s in operation. I though perhaps if we put our heads together, we might be able to work it out.” 

Thomas was far less sanguine about the prospect, but he didn’t suppose he had anything better to do. “Well, I can’t promise anything, but I’ll take a look if you like.” 

“Oh, good,” said Kit. He gestured with his cigarette. “I _do_ know how to set type, at least—I’m not very quick at it, but at least it’s a start. I thought that would be the hard part, but the press is more complicated than I thought.” 

Of course it was—the printing was the bit the working-class blokes would have handled, before. “You take care of clearing it with Theo,” he said

“I’m sure he won’t object,” Kit said. “It’s business premises, after all.”

Whether he objected or not, the idea of discussing it—acknowledging out loud that going somewhere alone with a man _could_ be an assignation—filled Thomas with creeping embarrassment. It was bad enough just knowing that the conversation was taking place; Kit could be the one to actually _have_ it. “Right, so you take care of it.” 

“All right,” Kit said mildly, as though he were humoring Thomas. 

The next morning, as soon as he was done with the coal scuttles, Kit down to the village to the place he’d rented for the newspaper. “Premises” turned out to be a rather grandiose name for it; it was a little stone heap that stood on the other side of the graveyard from the church, and which Thomas had assumed was a cowshed or something of that nature. Thanks to Father Timothy, he now recognized it as a traditional cottage, though with a wooden roof instead of thatch. 

Inside, it was predictably dim, dusty, and festooned with cobwebs. “I’m not entirely sure I trust the roof,” Kit said, lighting a lantern that was hanging from the rafters by a length of rusty chain. In the middle of the room was a battered wooden table, shrouded by a not-particularly-clean tarpaulin, which Kit began pulling back. “And I’ll need to get a stove if I mean to publish in the winter.”

He even more urgently needed to get a _broom_ , but Thomas decided not to mention it. Under the tarpaulin was the printing press—though if Thomas hadn’t known in advance what it was supposed to be, he’d probably have guessed a laundry-mangle, from the rollers. It looked to be made of cast iron, much of which was rusty. There was a large wheel on one side, which obviously drove the mechanism, and a sort of flat disc sticking up on the top, behind the rollers.

He didn’t have a single guess as to what _that_ bit was for, so it was very lucky that that was the one thing Kit was sure about—it was where the ink went. 

“Really?” Thomas said dubiously.

“Printer’s ink is thicker than writing ink,” Kit said. “Sort of like paint. The rollers go across the plate to pick up ink, then transfer it onto the type.”

Thomas could sort of see it. “Where does the type go?”

“Well,” Kit said, and proceeded to explain more than Thomas really wanted to know about typesetting. The type was arranged in a wooden frame, which Thomas vaguely supposed he had probably already known, and then the frame was attached…somewhere that the rollers could get at it, which narrowed things down a bit. “And then I’m pretty sure this is where the paper goes,” he continued, indicating a sort of flap that folded down from the front of the thing. “It would make a lot more sense if I could get it going,” he concluded, attempting to turn the large wheel. 

“Right,” said Thomas. “Let me think about this. Is there any way that we can get more light in here?”

Kit went to see if he could borrow another lantern from the vicarage, and came back with Mr. Braceridge’s electric torch, which was even better. With it, Thomas was able to find a large cast-iron pin that was stuck in a slot next to the wheel, obviously designed to prevent idiots from turning it, and breaking all their fingers, as they attempted to figure out how the machine worked. After removing it, he was able to turn the wheel a small fraction of a circle before something stopped it again. On inspection, he found another pin obstructing the ink-plate—it was meant to turn on a gear, when the press was working, for some reason Thomas didn’t understand yet. A third pin locked the rollers in place. 

And that, apparently, was the last one. After taking that pin out, Thomas managed to put the machine through its paces, though it protested all the way. The ink-plate rotated a quarter turn, the rollers swung up, then they swung back down again, the flap opened, the flap shut, then it opened again, and the whole sequence started over. 

“Goodness,” Kit said, once the screeching of tortured metal had died down. “I, er, don’t think it’s supposed to be quite that loud.”

“No,” said Thomas. “It needs to be cleaned and oiled, first thing.” That was becoming something of a _motif_ —did _no one_ on this blessed island know the first thing about machinery of any kind? “Should run more smoothly after that. This,” he pointed, “must be where the type goes, but we might as well clean it before we try and figure out how it’s meant to be attached.”

Kit, naturally, had nothing on hand that could be used to clean anything. Thomas supplied him with a list.

“We need a broom to clean the press?” Kit asked. 

“No, but if we don’t do something about the rest of this place, it’s going to get gummed up again in about five minutes.”

“Oh,” said Kit. “I suppose the place _could_ use a bit of polishing up.”

It took the rest of the morning to scrape the top layer of grime from the place. Thomas had planned to concentrate on the press, and leave the general cleaning to the proprietor, but when Kit’s efforts to operate the broom stirred up a choking cloud of dust, Thomas decided that _sweeping_ also constituted skilled work in this case, and took that over, setting Kit instead to wiping down everything he could reach with a damp rag. 

All the while, Kit chattered about his plans for the paper—local events, the occasional bit of news from the outside world, profiles of new residents. “Oh, and people can put in notices, if they have something they’d like to sell, or buy. Or services, like your clocks.” 

Thomas wasn’t convinced there was any real need for it—he’d been asked to look at several blokes’ watches already—but all Kit seemed to require in the way of a response was noises of vague agreement, which he didn’t mind supplying. 

“Of course, I won’t want to write the _entire_ thing myself,” Kit continued, as they walked over to the pub for lunch and a pint. “I’m working on a list of possible contributors. Dr. Hartley could do some sort of health hints, for example.”

Thomas thought for a moment. “Mr. Braceridge, for natural history of the island.”

“Hm,” Kit said. “I’d thought of Father Timothy, but not him.” 

Thomas briefly explained about Mr. Braceridge’s writing up the salmon incident for the Scouting magazine. “So I suppose he likes writing. Might take some firm editing, though—he’s…enthusiastic.” 

“I went on one of his nature hikes once,” Kit said, in a tone of agreement. “Have to find a way of steering him toward things people would actually be interested in. But that might work.” 

The pub was doing ham pie today, and was consequently fairly busy. Fortunately, Peter was already there, having his own lunch, and was happy to share his table with them. 

“What brings you to the village today?” he asked, once they’d fetched plates and glasses from the bar. 

This was a very polite way of phrasing the question. Thomas and Kit had sluiced themselves off under the churchyard pump in an effort to render themselves presentable, and both were decidedly damp around the edges; Thomas was sure that what Peter really meant was _what had they been up to_. 

Kit launched into an enthusiastic explanation of his newspaper plan, concluding, “Only the shed I took to keep the press in isn’t very clean, so the first thing we’ve got to do is tidy the place up a bit.”

“I see,” said Peter. “Well, I’m sure having our own newspaper will be very exciting. Thomas, I’d no idea you were interested in journalism.”

“Oh, I only asked him to help with the press,” Kit said. “I’m hopeless with mechanical things.”

If Thomas had been left to answer the question himself, he’d probably have said something similar, but hearing Kit say it, he wondered why he _couldn’t_ be interested in journalism if he liked. After all, the bloody _chauffeur_ had taken it up. “I suppose it is rather interesting,” he said. “Figuring out what sort of things people would like to read about, what would be beneficial to the community.” With a sudden flash of inspiration, Thomas added, “Like what you were saying the other day about learning to cook, and how there are so many here who’ve never thought about keeping house for themselves. Lots of papers have a cookery column, don’t they?”

“They do,” Kit admitted. “That sort of thing’s normally in the women’s pages, but….well.”

“Yes, I don’t think Mrs. Wallace needs her own pages in our paper,” Peter said dryly. To Thomas, he added, “It might cut down on my sales of tinned goods, but I think it’s a good idea.”

“It is,” Kit agreed. “I’m not sure who would write it—the fellow who runs the kitchens up at the Main House?”

“Mr. Chapin,” Thomas supplied. “Maybe, but he is very busy, running the kitchens, and his kind of cooking might be a little too advanced.” In his week as kitchen skivvy, Thomas learned that Chapin had worked in a fairly well-known Mayfair restaurant, before. “Actually, I was thinking Peter could do it. He told me all sorts of interesting things on the subject.”

“Me?” said Peter. “I’m just a beginner.”

“So are the people reading it,” Kit said. “If I understand the idea correctly.” Taking a sip from his pint, he went on, “Perhaps what we want is an expert to demonstrate recipes or cooking techniques, and a novice to write them up in such a way that other novices can understand.”

“Oh,” said Peter. “I expect I could do _that_. In service, and in the War, I was always having to show new blokes the ropes. Got fairly good at explaining things in a way that’s easy to understand.” He thought for a moment. “And it would be fairly handy to be able to consult the experts on all my cooking questions. I’ll give it a try, if you like.”

“Er, all right,” Kit said, looking a bit as though that had happened more quickly than he’d expected. “I’ll have to get back to you about deadlines and how much space we’ll have for it—it all depends, really, on how quickly we can get the press up and running, and how difficult it is to operate. We might have to start with a very short first issue, and expand later….”

And with that, not only was Peter on the staff of the brand-new newspaper, but apparently Thomas was, as well. That meant that he could no longer get away with noises of vague agreement when Kit did things like, for example, show him mock-ups of mastheads and ask what he thought of them.

The masthead was, apparently, what they called the top of the first page of a newspaper, where the title and the fiddly decorative bits and so forth were. The set of type that had come with the press didn’t include very many decorative bits, so all the of the mock-ups looked fairly similar, and Thomas didn’t see what difference it made whether they called the thing the _Island Times_ or the _Village Crier_ , or whatever else. His only strong opinion was to veto the trumpet-blowing cherubs on either side of _Island Herald_.

“I don’t really like them, but they’re the only emblems we have,” Kit explained, taking apart the mock-up. “The paper I bought it from used it in their masthead, apparently. It’s too bad we don’t have a lighthouse—the _Village Beacon_ would be good.”

“The island doesn’t have a lighthouse,” Thomas pointed out. 

“It would still sort of work. Thematically.” 

But he also got to weigh in on more important editorial decisions, such as when Kit started talking about trying to get Miles and Henry to announce their engagement in the paper’s first issue. “Not that it would really be a _scoop_ , since everyone knows they’re going to announce it sooner or later,” he added, “but it would be nice to have something in the way of news that hasn’t already made the rounds on the bush telegraph.”

“Sorry, are you completely mental?” Thomas asked. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“Once it’s in print, there’s no way to be sure copies won’t make it off the island.” While the island did import a great deal more than it exported, they did sometimes sell things—excess produce from the home farm, handicrafts like the woodcarvings that Will Thorn sold in Peter’s shop, and so on. “Somebody isn’t paying attention and uses it to, I don’t know, wrap eggs or something, and then some grocer on the mainland’s reading about two men at the lunatic asylum getting married.” 

“Oh, right. Yes, of course.” He looked crestfallen, as Islanders often did when reminded that the outside world still existed, and hadn’t changed its opinion of them.

Feeling a bit guilty, Thomas added, “I mean, if someone really _wants_ us to print a happy announcement, we could come up with some sort of dodge…‘Mr. Bill Brown and Mr. John Smith have taken lodgings at such-and-such a place, friends to help them set up home on such-and-such a date, refreshments to follow.’”

Kit brightened. “That would work.” 

Before he could run off to start pestering Miles and Henry, Thomas added, “Mind you, I expect some wouldn’t want even that much in print.”

Gradually, the newspaper began to take shape. The first decision, that it would be tabloid-sized, was made for them—their press wasn’t big enough to do a broadsheet. They decided on four pages—a single folded sheet—for the first issue, which shouldn’t be too much of a strain on their printing skills. The first page would include an address from Dr. L., a calendar of upcoming community events, and a write-up of the next village concert.

“I’d better do that one,” Kit said. “Syl’s the star, you know, and we don’t want him looking for things to complain about. Why don’t you cover the darts tournament? That can be the main story on page two.”

Thomas hadn’t entirely realized that he was _writing_ for the paper, as well as printing it. “All right,” he said, and began studying the sporting pages of the mainland papers to get an idea of how it was done. 

That was what he was doing when Richard joined him in the smoking room. “Not working on the paper today?”

“I sort of am,” Thomas said, and explained about the darts tournament. “Thought I’d better find out what sort of things you’re expected to say on the sporting page.”

“I didn’t know you were a writer.”

“Nor did I,” Thomas answered. “I suppose I’ve sort of gotten wrapped up in it.”

“I’m surprised you’re so keen,” Richard noted. “I mean, isn’t it sort of make-believe?”

Thomas rather wished he hadn’t said that. “It’s something to do.” 

“Well, I’m pleased for you.”

Belatedly, it occurred to Thomas that Richard might be feeling a bit left out. “You could do something for it, if you like. The first issue’s nearly full up, but we’ll soon be thinking about the next one.” 

“Like what?” Richard asked. 

“I don’t know. Peter’s doing our cookery column,” he added. “Something to do with the tailor shop, maybe….fashion column? But we’re not set up to do illustrations, so that might be difficult.” 

“I’m not sure I’m much of a writer, anyway.” 

Thomas considered. “Do you fancy learning to set type? Kit’s rubbish at it.” He had not, it turned out, been indulging in false modesty when he said that he was useless at mechanical things. Within a few days of Kit showing him how it was done, Thomas could set copy twice as fast as he could. 

“Maybe,” Richard said dubiously.

“Well, stop by one day,” Thomas said. People—particularly Theo, Father Timothy, and Rouse—were always popping by; Thomas suspected it was so that they wouldn’t get in the habit of thinking they had _privacy_ in the print shop. “I’ll show you around.”

The next day, Kit was laboriously composing yet another masthead mock-up, and Thomas was doing some test runs on the press, trying to get a feel for some of the finer adjustments of the mechanisms.

“Here, try printing this,” Kit said, handing him the chase he’d been working on—the chase was the frame that you put the type in; luckily, they had two, so that one could be in the press while the other was being set up. Thomas carefully tightened the quoins and checked that the type was lying flat—something Kit wasn’t as precise about as he could have been—switched out the chases, and made a print of it.

The first thing he noticed was that it was a good impression this time—not too dark and not to light, which was still a bit hit-or-miss at this point. The second was that Kit had cycled back around to _Island Beacon_ as a title. The third was that, under the title and to the right of the date, it said, “Norridge and Barrow, Proprietors.” 

“I’m a proprietor, now?” he asked, handing Kit the proof. 

“Well, you’re doing half the work and you’re not getting paid,” Kit said. “So yes, I think so.”

“I had wondered about that,” Thomas said. He still had credit at Peter’s shop from the cash register repair, and was getting a bit of pocket money from cleaning watches, but that wouldn’t last forever. “It isn’t that I mind doing it for nothing, but I won’t always have this much spare time. Sooner or later, I’ll have cleaned every watch and clock on the island, and then I’ll have to find a real job.”

“I have thought about that,” Kit said. “The money I get from home will just about cover expenses—ink, paper, and the rent on this place. Once we start getting advertising revenue, you can have that.” 

Kit had mentioned advertisements several times, and had left space in their page layouts for it, but… “Do we have any advertisers?”

“Not yet. I need to find the time to go round and talk people into it.” 

He could, Thomas reflected, be doing that _now_ , instead of playing with the masthead. It was at that point that Richard turned up. 

Thomas put the question of revenue to one side for the moment, and gave Richard the tuppence tour. By now, the “premises” almost didn’t require inverted commas. The press still had pride of place, in the middle of the room, but they now had two lanterns, one over the press and the other over the old kitchen dresser that was serving as the typesetting bench. Thomas had strung up lines to hang page proofs up to dry, and—most importantly—Kit had managed to acquire a stove, so they could just about take their coats off inside and not freeze to death. Thomas had re-negotiated his agreement with the Jumble shop to include a small line of credit against his eventual percentage of the sale of the grandfather clock, and had supplied a dented kettle and a selection of mis-matched cups. Richard, as the guest, got the one that didn’t have a chip in it. 

“Here,” Thomas said, swigging down his. “Let me show you how typesetting works.” He took up the chase that had his test-page in it. “We’ve got a spot here for an advertisement, so let’s say you wanted to put one in. The type goes into the stick like this—“Richard Ellis, comma, tailor.” Then a line break. ‘Rates reasonable, period.’ Another line break, ‘Enquiries comma Main House.’ You tie it up tightly, and then bung it in here, and use these wooden blocks to fill up the empty space.” There was quite a bit of empty space, even though he’d used large type for the text. “Maybe throw in a dingbat or two—those are the things that aren’t letters. How about a couple of these scroll-y bits?” He added those. “And a box around it.” 

“It looks very fiddly,” Richard observed. “How do you know you’re not putting any of the letters in upside-down or something?”

“Well, you find out when you print your proof,” Thomas explained. He took the chase with Kit’s masthead out of the press and put his back in. “Er, you don’t want to put your hand there, unless you fancy having your fingers broken,” he added, noticing that Richard had rested one hand on the platen. 

He pulled it back quickly, and Thomas resumed his demonstration. “If you’re doing a full print run, you can use that treadle to keep the press running at a consistent speed, but for a proof, it’s easier just to crank it by hand.” He did so, and the press continued to behave itself, producing a nice, crisp print, which he handed to Richard. “Don’t touch the ink for a few minutes; it’ll smear.” 

“Nice,” Richard said, eyeing it. “Better not let Mr. Weston see it, though, or he’ll think I’m trying to put him out of business.”

Mr. Weston was Richard’s boss at the tailor shop. “Good point,” Thomas said, taking the chase back out. “I’ll pull it now, so I don’t forget and do a whole test run of it.” 

“Hm,” Richard said. “Are you still looking for advertisers?”

“More like haven’t started yet,” Thomas answered. “Why?”

“If you make one of those with Mr. Weston’s name on it, I could show it to him and find out if he’s interested,” Richard explained. “It’s a bit impressive, seeing your name in print like that.”

Thomas glanced over at Kit, who said, “Sure, if you think it might help.”

So Thomas pulled out the mock advertisement, and started setting up a new one. “What’s his first name?”

“Reginald, but he doesn’t like it,” Richard said. “Maybe ‘R. Weston’?”

“R-period-Weston-comma, tailor,” Thomas said, picking out the appropriate slugs of type. “Bespoke tailoring, alterations, mending?”

Richard nodded. “He doesn’t much like mending work, either, but it’s a big part of the business. Can you put in another line?”

“Sure—what would you like it to say?” 

“Something like ‘New range of winter woolens in stock’? We’re meant to be getting some on the next boat, and Mr. Weston might be more convinced if he sees that the advert can tell people something they might not already know.”

Kit suggested, “What about ‘Come see our new range of winter woolens’? Bit zippier.” 

Richard agreed to this, and Thomas set it. This time, he spent a little more time on the design, making sure that the spacing around the text was even and putting some thought into the choice of ornaments. After all of that, the proof came out far too light, and Thomas eventually figured out that he’d been fussing around long enough for the ink on the plate to have mostly dried. After he’d reapplied it, the next print was too heavy and smeared instantly, but the one after that was all right. “There we are—third time lucky.”

He checked that he hadn’t stuck any of the letters in upside down, then hung the proof up on the drying line.

“I like it,” Richard said. “We’ll see what Mr. Weston thinks. If he asks how much you’re charging for advertising, what should I say?”

Thomas looked over at Kit, who said, “Oh. Er. Well, I’ve never really been involved with that side of things, so to speak. The business manager handled it at my old paper.” 

Recognizing the well-bred Englishman’s characteristic reluctance to talk about money, Thomas suddenly understood why Kit hadn’t made any progress on seeking advertising revenue. “Well, I really haven’t the faintest idea,” he said. 

“Well, let me think,” Kit said, and lit a cigarette. “The most important factor in advertising rates is the circulation of the paper. Since we’re giving copies away for free, I should say the circulation is the whole bally island. And adverts on the front page, or the first page of a section, fetch more….” He nattered on in this vein for some time, and with a great deal of hemming and hawing, eventually produced a figure. “You might tell him we’re thinking about so much, but if he’s interested, we’re open to negotiation—especially for the first issue. A proper newspaper has got to have advertisements.”

Richard nodded. “An introductory discount,” he suggested. “I should think it will be easier to attract more advertisers once you already have some. And Mr. Weston does like a discount.”

After Richard had gone, Kit said, “That was a spot of luck. I really have been meaning to try to sell some advertising, but I wasn’t sure how to start.”

More like he’d been waiting for Thomas to figure out that he wasn’t going to do it, and take on the job himself, Thomas suspected. The trouble was, he didn’t want to do it, either. “Perhaps we need a business manager,” he suggested. “What do you think about asking Richard if he’ll do it?”

Frowning slightly, Kit said, “He does seem to have a head for it. Dashed clever idea, mocking up sample adverts to show prospective advertisers. But I’ve no money to pay him, either. It would have to come out of the advertising revenue.”

If that meant there would _be_ advertising revenue, without Thomas selling the adverts himself, he thought he could live with that. “A percentage, maybe,” he suggested. “If he’s interested.” 

It turned out that he was interested. That night at dinner, he reported that Mr. Weston would call round the newspaper premises tomorrow to discuss rates. “He’ll drive a hard bargain, though,” Richard warned. “It was the mention of a discount that convinced him.”

“Sounds like you have a knack for this sort of thing,” Thomas said. “Would you like to do a bit more of it?”

Richard raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Talking people into things isn’t exactly my best area,” he admitted. “And Kit…well, he doesn’t actually care if the newspaper makes any money or not.” That was safe enough to say, as Kit was on the other side of the room, dining with some men of his own class. “All you have to do is help me figure out what to put in sample adverts for the rest of the local businesses, and then spend an afternoon going round the village showing them off, and you get ten percent of anything we make. And you get to call yourself ‘business manager.’”

“You’re right about not being very good at talking people into things,” Richard noted. 

He glanced over at Morrow, who shrugged. “I wouldn’t do it for a million pounds, but he’s not asking me.”

No, because even Thomas would be better at it than Morrow would. “Fifteen percent,” he suggested. 

Richard sighed. “All right, but only because I like seeing you having fun with something.” 

Thomas decided that he could live with that. 

#

“All right, lad?” Tully asked, leaning against the wall next to him. Thomas was in the pub, having secured a spot where he would have a good view of the darts tournament, which would be starting shortly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Covering the tournament for the paper.” Tully knew about the paper; he and Jessop had agreed to take out an advertisement. “It’ll be the main story on the sporting page.”

Tully nodded. “Dickie-boy said.”

He seemed about to say something else, possibly on the subject of Richard. “How about a quote, for the article?” Thomas said. “Something public-spirited.”

Tully did not look as though he had been _fooled_ , but he accepted the change of subject, producing some flannel on the subject of how the pub brought the community together, and using only one word which would have to be edited out as unsuitable for publication in a respectable newspaper.

And the benefit of _covering it for the paper_ didn’t end there. The darts players were evidently a tight-knit group, full of inside jokes and references to previous tournaments and other events of which Thomas knew nothing. They weren’t unfriendly, but Art, from Group, who was evidently participating in his first tournament, came in for a great deal of ribbing, and an even greater amount of smiling politely at things he didn’t understand. 

Thomas would have hated it for himself, but as the official representative of The Press, it was only natural for Thomas to be a bit apart from the rest of the crowd. When anyone, attempting to be friendly, edged toward asking a personal question, he could deflect it by asking, “for the paper,” what the person thought of his chances, if he were a player, or whom he favored in the tournament, if he were a spectator. And when references to some particular past event—such as the time that Greggs went bust on the last throw of what could have been a nine-dart finish—he could easily ask to be filled in, as “background for the story.”

A similar situation prevailed when he went to cover the Garden Club meeting (topic: “Putting Your Beds to Bed for the Winter”) and choir practice. 

A few days later, they were back in the newspaper offices, doing the final typesetting for pages 1 and 4 (Kit’s concert story and Thomas’s choir-practice one, respectively). Richard had dropped by as well, and was helping to sort type from the hellbox—the bowl where they’d tossed the type after breaking down the chases from pages 2 and 3, which were now drying on the lines. The paper was due to come out the next day. 

“We still need to figure out what we’re putting in the page four advert space,” Thomas pointed out. They’d done their layouts for one advertisement on each page, but Richard had only managed to sell three: Mr. Weston’s tailor shop, the pub, and Peter’ shop. Both Greggs at the Jumble and Abbot the greengrocer saw no reason to advertise when they were the only shops of their kind on the island, which was hard to argue with. Nealey, the butcher, had allowed as how he might consider taking out an advert when he had something to announce—perhaps the dates of the upcoming pig butchering—but he hadn’t decided yet when that would be, and so could not be talked into an advert in the inaugural issue, at any price.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Kit said. “Unless you’ve got a better idea, all I can come up with is an advert for ourselves—something like, _See your advert in the next issue of the_ Island Beacon _—enquire at the newspaper offices, behind the vicarage_.” He shrugged. 

“Oh,” said Richard. “I had an idea about that, actually. Well, not that exactly. But about revenue.” As always, Richard said _revenue_ with a bit of ironic emphasis. “As I’m business manager.”

“Well, spit it out,” Thomas suggested. 

“What about printing things other than the newspaper? I can’t imagine there’s a great deal of printing business out there to be had, but there might be a bit—Orders of Service for the church, handouts for Group, and so on.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Thomas said. For one thing, as a source of _revenue_ , it was a bit less make-believe than the advertising. “What do you think?” he asked Kit.

“As long as it doesn’t interfere with putting out the paper,” Kit said. “And if we end up with so much business that it _does_ , we could get more chases and type. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I like it. Well done, Richard.”

So their fourth advert was for the _Beacon_ print shop: for all your printing needs. Rates reasonable, no job too small, etc. 

There turned out to be another benefit of having Richard on-board with the paper. When they returned to the Main House for dinner after printing page 1, it turned out that Theo was…not exactly sanguine about the plan to return to the offices afterwards to print page 4. “The two of you are going to spend half the night, alone, working on the paper?” he asked, saying the last phrase as though it were a euphemism. “Are you _sure_ that’s a good idea?”

_Oh, come on_. “It’s just Kit,” Thomas pointed out. “Anyway, it’s the only way to have the paper ready to distribute in the morning.” 

“Perhaps it could be an _afternoon_ edition?” Theo suggested. 

Richard spoke up. “I’ll go with them, if that helps.”

“It does,” said Theo. “Thank you.” To Thomas, he added, “It would be best if you could keep that sort of thing in mind. We’ve some new men coming on Thursday—”

“ _Bloody_ hell.”

Theo looked at him with surprise. “Problem?”

“Couldn’t you have mentioned that _before_ we had the paper all laid out?” Thomas asked. It couldn’t be common knowledge yet—Richard would have mentioned it if it were—and the one thing Kit wanted for the paper, and didn’t have, was a “scoop.” They might still be able to cram it in somehow—reduce the size of their own advert…. “Or at least before we printed the front page?” 

“Sorry,” said Theo. 

Richard, glancing back and forth between them, asked, “Is it meant to be a secret?”

Theo shook his head. “Not really. I suppose you could have put it in the paper, if I’d thought of it.”

“We still can; it just means I have to re-set page four.” Taking a large forkful of his food, he nudged Richard. “Hurry up; this is going to be a longer night than I thought.” 

“Good thing I’m not expected at the shop in the morning,” Richard noted. 

While they finished eating, Thomas pumped Theo for further details on the breaking story—unfortunately, there weren’t many. “There’s one from The Clinic, and a VIP,” Theo explained. “The _identity_ of the VIP is a bit hush-hush, but I suppose you can say that there is one. It’ll be fairly obvious when he gets here, after all—Dr. L.’s giving him a private room right off the bat. The last time that happened was Lord Gerald.” 

“What about the other bloke?” Thomas asked. 

Theo hesitated. “It might be best if we allow him to make his own first impression.” 

Richard frowned a little.

“I’m sure he’s perfectly lovely, once you get to know him,” Theo added. 

“ _That_ wasn’t at all ominous,” Thomas remarked, as they went to meet Kit for the walk down to the village. 

Kit was, as Thomas had expected, pleased to have some genuine news for the paper. “If only we’d held off on printing the first page,” he said. “A real shame to bury our breaking news on page four…do you suppose we could redo the front page? Perhaps if we worked all night—”

“It’s printed on the same sheet as two and three, in case you forgot,” Thomas said. “We’d have to re-set the entire bloody paper. No.” 

Fortunately, Kit accepted this. “We really need to get more chases.”

“And more type,” Thomas added. Only being able to have two pages set at a time would be an even bigger problem once they started publishing longer issues, which Kit was very anxious to do. 

Setting the new story took some doing, both because there wasn’t much room on the page for it—they eventually decided to eliminate the print shop advert entirely—and because they were experiencing an acute shortage of the letter E, as well as running low on several other commonly-used letters. Once it was finally set, and a proof printed and checked, they started the print run—Thomas operating the press, Kit standing by to apply more ink when needed, and Richard taking the finished sheets back to the drying-lines. 

“That’s our main story for the next front page sorted, anyway,” Kit said, once they’d gotten into enough of a rhythm that they could think of things other than not getting anyone’s hands crushed in the press. “Profiles of the new chaps. “

“Maybe,” Thomas said, thinking of how _he_ would have liked it if someone had tried _interviewing him for a newspaper_ when he’d first arrived on the island. On the other hand, _Syl_ would probably have been thrilled by the opportunity. “They might want to get settled a bit before they go speaking on the record,” he suggested delicately. _On the record_ was more of Kit’s journalistic jargon; it was generally useful to throw a bit of that in if he was trying to get Kit to agree to something. “But we can ask.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Kit agreed. “Might be best if I approach the gentleman, and you the, er, other one, what?”

He was probably right about that—unfortunately, given Theo’s hesitancy about the “other one.” But at least that plan meant that, if Kit was badgering some poor sod who wanted to be left alone, it would be some poor sod who almost certainly outranked him. “Yes, all right.” 

When the press fell silent, Kit brought out a bottle of Champagne. Thomas wondered, just a bit, if perhaps Theo had had a better sense of the situation than Thomas had given him credit for, but if Kit had hoped for this to be a romantic moment, he hid it well, cheerfully sloshing Champagne into teacups and handing them round. “Gentlemen,” he said, raising his. “Thanks to your hard work and dedication, we have a newspaper. She may not be the _London Times_ , but she’s ours. To the _Island Beacon_ , and all who sail in her.” 

“The _Island Beacon_ ,” Richard and Thomas echoed. 

One of the perks of being on close terms with toffs was that you got to drink Champagne before it had gone flat. The atmosphere remained festive as they folded and stacked the papers, swilling Champagne and making additional toasts to each other, the muse of journalism, and the letter E. 

“Thomas,” Kit said, clutching Thomas’s arm and gazing wonderingly at the stack of papers. “It’s a _newspaper_.”

“Were you expecting a Christmas pudding?” Thomas asked. 

Kit—there was no other word for it— _giggled_. “No, but—” He gestured frantically with his free hand. “We _made_ a _newspaper_.”

“We did,” Thomas agreed. Since that was the logical result of everything they’d been doing for the last few weeks, he wasn’t sure why Kit was making such a point of it.

“Our own newspaper,” Kit added. 

“Congratulations,” Richard said, seriously. “A bouncing baby newspaper.” 

“I’m going to send one to my mother,” Kit said, picking up a copy and hugging it. 

Thomas wasn’t _entirely_ sure that was wise—Kit had mentioned his mother a few more times since that first Group meeting, and Thomas didn’t have the impression she’d entirely come round to Kit’s new life, but he decided not to say so. He’d have plenty of time, before the boat came, to sober up and think better of it.

They left stacks of papers on the doorsteps of the pub and Peter’s shop—which Kit insisted on calling “our distributors”—and took the remainder up to the Main House with them, arranging them on the hall table where the mail was set out, on boat days. 

A few hours later, Thomas discovered that it was all well and good for Richard and Kit to stay up half the night—they had their own bedrooms and could sleep as late as they liked. _He_ slept in a room with half a dozen other people, none of whom seemed to feel any particular obligation to be quiet. 

Putting his pillow over his head, Thomas wondered how _they’d_ have liked it if he’d made this much of a racket coming in last night.

Somebody jostled his bed. “You getting up, mate?” asked Bill. 

_Would I really_ , Thomas did not say, _be lying here with my pillow over my head if I was planning on_ getting up _?_

“It’s bacon today,” Bill added. “You don’t want to miss that.”

“He was up late,” Theo said. Thomas dared to hope that meant he was about to be left alone, but Theo continued, “Did you get your paper finished?” 

With a sigh, Thomas flung his pillow aside and sat up. “Yes,” he said flatly. 

As he got dressed, it occurred to Thomas that nowhere in his prior life would a little thing like _having been up half the night working_ be considered a sufficient reason to have a lie-in. He must be getting more accustomed to the island than he’d realized, to have thought even for a moment that he might be able to do it here.

When he went down to breakfast, he found that Richard was the only one of them taking advantage of the opportunity to sleep late. Kit was buzzing around from table to table, distributing newspapers and collecting accolades. 

Thomas wasn’t nearly so blatant about it, but he did pay a bit more attention than usual to the conversation at his table, which mostly concerned the paper. 

“Blimey, they put my name in,” Art said, showing the darts tournament article to those on either side of him, precisely as if “they” weren’t sitting right there. “Look. ‘Newcomer Art Whitney, recently of London, respectable third-place finish.’”

“Nice,” said Bill, paging through it. “I like an illustrated paper, me, but this ain’t bad.”

“Bit short, for a newspaper,” Joe pointed out. 

Before Thomas could respond, Art said, “They’re just getting started, ent they?”

After breakfast was Morning Meeting. Dr. L. was running it, which Thomas now found only _mildly_ alarming. Most of the substance of the meeting concerned the new arrivals, and Dr. L. reminding them all to show them a warm welcome. “Our, ah, VIP,” he said, with a nod toward Thomas and Kit, “will be taking the cottage on the Point once he’s ready to move out of the Main House. It is in some disrepair, so please see Mr. Blake if you’d like to help with making it ready for him.” 

There was a bit of a murmur at that—Thomas had the impression that it wasn’t precisely usual even for the more well-off residents to lay claim to private lodgings before they’d even _arrived_. 

Bill raised his hand. “Is one of us getting ‘is own room, then? We’ve only got one berth free in ours, since James moved out.”

Dr. L. smiled stiffly. “The, ah, new gentleman will be bypassing the dormitory. He’ll be staying at the far end of the North wing.” This provoked another murmur. “The other new chap will take James’s place in the dormitory.” He very quickly went on to say that he’d be leaving shortly in order to escort the new men up from London. “As usual, matters here will be in Dr. Rouse’s capable hands. Theo?”

Theo went briskly through several announcements—most of which were covered in the “community calendar” portion of the newspaper, concluding, “Once the new men get here, I’ll be fairly busy settling them in, so if there’s anything you’ve been meaning to talk to me about, today would be a good time.” 

The meeting broke up, and Thomas was deliberating over whether to attempt going back to bed, when Dr. L. said, “Mr. Barrow—walk with me, if you aren’t busy?”

_Oh, bollocks._ “Sir?” Thomas said, falling into step beside him. 

“Ah, good. I wanted you to know, I hadn’t forgotten that I’d asked you to have a look at the clock in my office.” 

Oh, _that_. Thomas had pretty much forgotten about it himself. 

“I’ve been rather busy, you see, with this prospective new resident. Helping him decide if our community was right for him.”

Funny how some people got to decide that for themselves. “Whenever you like, sir.” 

“And I understand you’ve been rather busy, as well,” the doctor added, pausing by the hall table to collect a copy of the _Island Beacon_. “Were you interested in journalism—or the printing trade—in your former life?”

“Uh, no,” Thomas said. “Not as such.” 

“Ah.” They went outside—it wasn’t raining, quite. “One of our residents said once that being here was like being back at school. Rather stuck with me, because I hope it’s true, in the best of ways. Opportunities to expand one’s horizons, so to speak.” 

Schools for toffs, Thomas reflected, must be very different from those for ordinary people. “I suppose so, sir.”

“Well,” he said. “I won’t keep you, but I’m very glad you’ve found your niche, Mr. Barrow.”

Was _that_ what he had done? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes: 
> 
> Thomas and Kit’s setup—manual typesetting and a hand-operated press—would have been very retro by the standards of the 1920’s. Around the turn of the century, the newspaper industry began making the transition to hot lead typesetting: basically, a big machine that has a crucible of molten metal at one end, a keyboard at the other. The typesetter enters the text to be produced, and the machine makes a slug that corresponds to (usually) a line of text in the final, printed product. The lines are assembled in a chase (like Thomas does with individual letters in the story), it goes in the press, and at some point the slugs get melted back down again to make new ones. Some big papers, by this time, would have even had hot-lead systems that could make a plate, called a stereotype, for the entire page, and skip the “putting the lines together in a wooden frame” step. 
> 
> The actual press is also several steps behind the times. Most newspaper presses at the time would have been steam-powered, or maybe even electrical—no turning a handle or pumping a foot pedal to make it go. Also, while Thomas and Kit have to manually stick sheets of paper in the press to be printed, most newspaper presses would have had a continuous feed from big rolls of paper. A really cutting-edge system would even have been able to print both sides of the page at the same time. 
> 
> Both hot-lead typesetting and continuous-feed printing were much less labor intensive than what we see Thomas and Kit doing in the story—but they’re also a lot more mechanically complex, not to mention expensive. It’s pretty unlikely that they’d have been able to figure them out just by faffing around a bit—at least, not without sustaining life-altering injuries in the process. I figure Kit bought his press very cheaply from some other tiny village paper that was upgrading its hardware. 
> 
> Here are three videos that I watched to get an idea of how the press would look and work:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y0dH7X2DMZM  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ewEje3B1BoA  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JJa5anhdmYs


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Island greets two new arrivals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Note: Child abuse/neglect hinted at in an OC's backstory. Details in endnote.

It wasn’t until Thomas was at the harbor, watching the crowd watching for the boat to come in, that a horrifying thought occurred to him. Most of the talk was about the VIP. Common consensus was that he had to be _at least_ as important as Lord Gerald, and probably more so, though Richard scoffed aloud at the speculation that the mystery person might be _royal_. 

That, Thomas had to agree, was unlikely in the extreme. But there was another possibility. 

“Theo,” he said urgently. “It isn’t _Phillip,_ is it?” If it was, he needed to…he wasn’t sure. Find another island, maybe. Or at very least not be standing right here when he got off the boat. 

“What?” Theo asked vaguely, still looking at the sea. 

“The new gentleman,” Thomas said impatiently. Had he ever mentioned Phillip to Theo? He couldn’t quite remember. “It isn’t Phillip Crowborough, is it?”

 _Now_ Theo turned to look at him. “ _Him_? No. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Thomas lied. “I should get some quotes. For the paper.” Kit was writing the arrival-day story, but Theo didn’t know that—and anyway, he could still get some quotes, in case Kit wanted them.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of a more interesting question to ask than “What brings you to the harbor today?”, to which the only answers were “to get an eyeful of the new blokes” and a series of blatant lies. 

Thomas had more-or-less given up the pretense of gathering quotes, and was looking for an out-of-the-way spot—specifically, an out-of- _Theo’s_ -way spot—when he saw Mrs. Wallace, the laundress, standing just outside the crowd. Thomas had seen her around the village now and then—as the sole woman on the island, she wasn’t exactly difficult to spot—but he’d never spoken to her, and just at the moment, she seemed rather an enigmatic figure. 

Well, why not? Approaching her, he introduced himself. “Barrow, _Island Beacon_. You’re Mrs. Wallace, I believe?”

“Who else might I be, laddie?” she asked—reasonably enough, Thomas supposed. “You going to put me in the paper, then?”

“Ah, perhaps,” Thomas said. “What brings you to the harbor today?”

“I always cooms when there’s new ones coomin’ on the boat,” she said. “Well, why shouldn’t I?” 

“No reason at all,” Thomas said, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“My Andrew, you ken, he was a pecooliar one,” she added. “I knows it won’t be him coomin—he’s dead these twenty years.” She paused just long enough for Thomas to wonder if he was expected to offer belated condolences. “But I likes to see.” 

“Ah,” Thomas said. “Yes, I suppose…perfectly understandable.” Tipping his hat, he sought out someone in a less confiding mood to interview. 

A few moments later, a cry went up—the boat had come into view. As no one was interested in talking to the press at such a momentous time, Thomas sought out Richard to stand next to. Even Morrow and Wilberforce had turned out to see the new arrivals, the former standing dourly next to Richard, and the latter trying to find a place to sit where he wouldn’t have his tail trodden on. 

The boat steamed up to the harbor as it always did, and the crew started shoving the cargo ashore. A moment later, the gangplank was pushed out, and Dr. L and another gentleman—obviously the VIP—came down in animated conversation. The new gentleman, having noticed the watching crowd, waved. Despite Theo’s assurance that he wasn’t anyone Thomas knew _well_ , he was still relieved to find the gentleman completely unfamiliar, and not, say, a frequent guest of the Crawleys.

“—short walk up to the house,” Dr. L. was saying, “but we can ride if you’d prefer.” Here he indicated one of the pony-carts usually used to take luggage and supplies up to the Main House—in lieu of any more distinguished conveyance, it had been polished as much as it would bear.

“I don’t mind stretching my legs a bit,” the new gentleman said, his accent that of a well-bred Englishman, overlaid with a touch of something vaguely foreign. “Besides, I think the other fellow’s need might be greater than mine, as they say.” 

And indeed, the other fellow was now tottering down the gangplank, Dr. Hartley’s steadying hand at his elbow. As soon as his feet were on solid ground, he shook off the doctor’s grip and looked around, a bit vacantly. 

“God help us,” Thomas murmured. 

“You know him?” Richard asked.

“He was at The Clinic when I was.” Thomas had taken very little notice of his fellow-sufferers, but this one had managed to stand out. “He was always saying—”

“I ain’t,” the young man said, with great deliberation, “a fucking poof.”

“That,” Thomas finished. “And sometimes that he only ever did it for the money.”

“Goodness,” said Richard. “The poor thing.”

“You think that now,” Thomas said darkly. There had been a bit of that at The Clinic, too—he was a runty little bloke, and looked far too young to be there, though the guards had pointed out to him a time or two that if he was sent away now, it would mean real gaol and not Borstal—but it hadn’t lasted long.

“What’s his name?” Richard asked, watching as Theo got the lad loaded into the pony-cart.

“I don’t know.” It wasn’t as though he’d been paying much attention, though the guards had said it a lot. Usually accompanied by instructions to shut up, sit down, or stop doing something. “Starts with a G, I think.”

“George?” Richard suggested.

Of course it wasn’t. “They only ever called us by our surnames.” Hadn’t Richard _been_ there? “You know that.” 

“I forgot,” Richard said. 

Whatever. “I’m going to see if Peter needs a hand.” 

He did, but he also wanted to talk about the new blokes, so it wasn’t as complete a break from that topic as Thomas would have hoped. 

There wasn’t much to say about the gentleman—Peter rather thought he had laid eyes on him somewhere or another, in London before the War, but couldn’t remember where, much less his name. “Might even have been at the house where I worked,” he added, as they piled the shop deliveries onto a handcart.

Thomas thought that over for a moment. “Was your employer…?”

“Oh, no. He liked—likes, I suppose—actresses. He’d have artistic little gatherings at the house when he had a new one, in the stage in between sending presents to her dressing room and setting her up in a flat.”

“Ah,” Thomas said.

Peter nodded. “The more I think about it, I think our VIP was a guest at a few of those. Still don’t know who he is, though,” he added. 

“I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.” 

They finished loading up, and started toward the shop. “The other chap looks as though he’s had a rough time of it,” Peter noted.

“Mm,” Thomas said. “No, I don’t imagine he’ll have the easiest time fitting in here.”

“You never know,” Peter said optimistically. “When you first got here, we thought you might be one of those.”

Thomas stopped short. “A prostitute?”

“What? No—one of the ones who thinks he’s not really as queer as the rest of us. What makes you think the new chap’s a,” Peter lowered his voice, “prostitute?”

Belatedly, it occurred to Thomas that, when Theo spoke of the new bloke making his own first impression, he just might have had that particular detail in mind. “He didn’t make a secret of it at The Clinic.”

“You know him from The Clinic?” Peter asked.

It _had_ only been a few minutes since Thomas had said so to Richard—perhaps the gossip network was running a bit slow today. “Not really,” Thomas said. “He was there when I was.”

“He must’ve been there a long time,” Peter noted. “Poor thing.”

“Well, they brought him in after I’d been there a while.” Probably not long before Thomas had been sent here, though it was hard to be sure—the ways blurred together, at the Clinic. “He probably wasn’t there any longer than I was.” 

Peter shuddered a little. “Long enough.”

Thomas couldn’t argue with that. 

He spent the rest of the afternoon puttering around the village, first helping Peter put his stock away, and then going over to the newspaper offices, where he found Kit working on the Arrival Day story. He was a bit interested in the quote Thomas had gotten from Mrs. Wallace. “I’ve always thought her a rather enigmatic figure,” Kit noted. “Might be a bit of a waste using it in this story, though. Do you suppose she’d agree to be interviewed for a feature?”

Thomas had no idea, but added it to their growing list of potential stories. 

It was nearly dinner-time when he returned to the Main House, but instead of the usual bustle of everyone getting ready for dinner, he found the residents of the dormitory standing around debating in hushed tones whether or not to wake the new bloke. 

Recalling that they’d had no similar compunctions about waking _him_ , on his first day, Thomas asked, in a normal voice, “Where’s Theo?”

Several voices shushed him, and Hugh whispered, “Getting Lord Hexham settled in.” 

So that was the new gentleman’s name—it was vaguely familiar.

Hugh continued, “He asked us to show Terrence, here, down to the dining room.”

“So wake him up,” Thomas suggested, going to his trunk for a clean shirt. 

It seemed straightforward enough to Thomas, but this statement reignited the debate over whether or not it was wise to do so. Syl was firmly against doing so, and kept saying something about his pillow. “What?” Thomas asked, after the third or fourth enigmatic reference to the topic.

Bill sighed heavily. “He nicked Syl’s pillow.”

Thomas had no idea how he could possibly tell the difference, but said, “So steal it back before you wake him up.”

“Not _here_ ,” Syl said. “At The Clinic. _And_ he said if I told on him, he’d break my face.”

Honestly, Thomas thought, that had probably been for the best—no one at The Clinic would have possibly cared. Not to mention that Syl _was_ a bit of a snitch. “Didn’t they notice at Inspection, anyway?”

“He swopped it for his,” Syl explained. “After he’d been sick on it.”

In that case, the incident was unlikely to repeat itself—though Thomas did take the precaution of locking his trunk, just in case the urchin woke up in a larcenous mood.

“It’s probably fine to wake him up,” Hugh said, returning to the subject at hand. “He looks fairly innocent, lying there.”

“I’m sure _crocodiles_ look innocent when they’re asleep,” Syl countered. 

“If he were a crocodile, letting him miss dinner might be even worse than waking him up,” Bill pointed out. 

“In that case,” Hugh noted, “we could smuggle some meat up from the dining room in a napkin, and poke it toward him with a stick.”

“Good idea!” Syl said. “Let’s do that.”

“You do realize he isn’t _actually_ a crocodile, old thing?” Hugh asked. 

If someone didn’t do _something_ , this situation was going to get even more ridiculous than it was. Thomas went over to the new bloke—Terrence’s—bed, and jostled it with his foot. “Oi. Sleeping beauty—you eating, or not?”

There was, in fact, something a little reptilian in the new bloke’s eyes as he sat up, grabbed Thomas’s arm, and twisted. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Everyone else crowded into the far corner of the room, and someone—probably Syl—shrieked. 

_Honestly_. Thomas pried the little guttersnipe’s fingers off of his arm—not really much of a job; no one was at his best fresh from The Clinic, and from the looks of him, Terrence hadn’t exactly been growing fat off the wages of sin beforehand. “Wasn’t planning to,” Thomas said coolly. “If you want any dinner, it’s time to get up.” 

Terrence flexed his fingers and jutted out his chin in a way that Thomas guessed was meant to be intimidating. It might, Thomas supposed charitably, be a touch more effective if the recipient was also a half-starved adolescent. “I ain’t,” he said, “a fucking poof.”

“Didn’t ask,” Thomas said. “If you want to get cleaned up, it’s through there.” He pointed. 

“I want,” Terrence said, appearing to give the matter a great deal of thought, “out of this fucking shithole.”

Perhaps, Thomas thought, he and Sergeant Tully would hit it off. “None of us have got anything to do with it,” he said. “The man in charge’ll probably talk to you tomorrow—you can take it up with him then.”

Surprisingly enough, this seemed to work—Terrence nodded slowly and then took himself off to the W.C. He did slam the door emphatically behind him, presumably to stop any of them coming for whatever remained of his virtue, but at least they weren’t standing around debating whether to wake him up or not anymore. 

Syl and a few others made a rapid exit. As Thomas was changing his tie, Hugh said, “That’s right, if Syl knows him from The Clinic, you must, as well. Not as fierce as Syl made him out to be, I suppose?”

“I don’t really remember,” Thomas answered. He didn’t even remember the pillow incident, which he couldn’t imagine Syl _not_ making a meal out of. “I doubt it, but I’m not really sure what Dr. L. was thinking, bringing him here.”

“I heard he was Dr. R.’s idea,” Bill said. “Something about taking some bugger who really needed it, if he was going to go along with kowtowing to the Earl of Hexham.”

“Marquess,” Thomas said, straightening his tie in the mirror. It had come to him while they were wrangling over whether or not to wake up Terrence. 

“What?” said Bill.

“It’s one step above an Earl, and below a Duke,” Thomas explained. “The family name’s Pelham, so if they’re calling him Lord Hexham, he’s the actual Marquess.” 

“Blimey,” Bill said. “Suppose it’s just as well they don’t have him sleeping in here with us, eh? I wouldn’t know where to look.”

“Dukes and Earls put their trousers on one leg at a time,” Thomas said. “So I suppose Marquesses do as well. Though I’ll admit to not having witnessed the spectacle myself.” He continued, “But I suspect even Rouse would have trouble convincing anyone that a Marquess ought to sleep in the next bunk over from a foul-mouthed street urchin.” 

“He probably isn’t feeling his best just now,” Hugh pointed out. “Perhaps he’ll be more pleasant once he’s….” He trailed off, apparently unable to imagine a circumstance that might bring about this transformation.

Moments later, said urchin emerged from the W.C., and they went down. Thomas spent the short walk trying to think of some way to stick Terrence at a different table from theirs, and still hadn’t come up with one when Theo intercepted them, having just gotten Lord Hexham settled with what passed for high society on the island. Mouthing _thank you_ to Thomas, he said brightly, “Terrence, I hope you’re feeling better.”

“Piss off,” Terrence said. 

“Apparently not,” Theo murmured. 

By then, they were close enough to the table for Richard to have heard this interchange—or, at least, the new bloke’s part of it—and he shot Thomas a questioning glance as they sat down. “Seems as charming as ever,” Thomas told him, quietly. 

“One wonders how he ever made a living,” Richard whispered back. 

Well, it wasn’t as though they’d have been paying him to _talk_. But Thomas decided not to voice that thought, as Theo was now introducing Terrence to those who hadn’t yet had the pleasure. He was Terrence Gordon, apparently—Thomas had been right about the G, and “Gordon” suited him a lot better than “Terrence” did. 

“There is one thing,” Thomas added to Richard. “Syl dislikes him even more than he does me.” He briefly recounted the Case of the Stolen Pillow. 

“I can’t say as I blame him,” Richard noted.

“Which one?” Thomas asked.

“Syl,” Richard whispered back. 

“I suppose,” Thomas allowed. “But it’s a shame it didn’t teach him a lesson about grassing on people.”

The food arrived, and while Gordon was occupied with shoveling his in as though someone might be about to steal it from him, general conversation turned to the subject of Lord Hexham. 

“I thought I remembered hearing there was some sort of scandal about him,” Thomas noted. “I suppose we know now what kind.”

“That’s right,” Richard said. “Isn’t he the one who bunked off to foreign parts as soon as he came into the title?”

“He’s been living abroad for some years, yes,” Theo allowed. 

“Peter’s pretty sure he was a guest at Sir Henry’s before the War,” Thomas added. "So he can’t have been one step ahead of the law, wherever he was.”

“Morocco,” Morrow said. 

Richard looked at him with some surprise—not, Thomas guessed, because Morocco was a particularly unlikely destination, but because Morrow was the one who’d said it. “Really?”

“Tangiers,” Theo confirmed. 

“Wonder what made him decide to give up the tropics in favor of the North Atlantic,” Richard said. 

“That, I don’t know,” Theo admitted. 

“Are they having any native troubles, since the War?” Thomas asked. 

No one was entirely sure whether or not the Moroccans were currently attempting to cast off their colonial overlords, but all agreed that it was a likely explanation. “There’s a lot of that going around,” Richard noted. 

“I, for one, don’t blame them,” Thomas said.

It was the sort of thing that, if he’d said it in the servants’ hall at Downton, would have given Carson palpitations, but here, all that happened was that Bill said, “Mate,” in a sort of disapproving way. 

Warming to his theme, Thomas continued,

“More than once over there, I thought about how I was going through it all for a country that would just as soon spit on me as look at me.” That, he’d probably have been burned at the stake for saying at Downton—even if he’d made an effort to pretend he was talking about being working-class. “I expect some of the blokes in the native battalions felt the same way about it.” 

“I’m sure they did,” Richard said. “My officer—good God!”

Whatever he’d been about to say was lost, as Gordon shoved his chair back and was noisily and comprehensively sick on the floor. 

Amid the various exclamations, offers of help, and questions from people too far away to see what had happened, Thomas abruptly decided that he was finished eating, and fled for the safety of the smoking room. He was there long enough to choose a seat and light a cigarette before others began trickling in. 

You got used to that sort of thing at The Clinic, of course. And it wasn’t much of a surprise that Gordon had made himself sick, the way he’d been putting it away. But Thomas found himself feeling oddly shaky—not to mention a bit queasy. 

“You all right?” Richard asked, as he and Morrow sat down across from Thomas.

Richard shrugged. “Theo and Dr. R. are getting Terry settled in the infirmary,” he reported. 

“Good.” At least they wouldn’t have to listen to him puking all night. If they were really lucky, Syl might even wait to start carrying on about being murdered in their beds. 

“And they’re going to set out the coffee and pudding in the big parlor, after some suitable interval,” Richard added.

“Ugh,” Thomas said. 

Richard gave him a sidelong look. “He’d have had a rougher than average time at The Clinic, Theo said. Apparently they make more of an effort if think you actually want to be cured.”

Thomas glanced up at him sharply. “How’s that?”

“Keep you there longer. Stronger treatments. That sort of thing.”

 _Oh_. “Is that how they decide?” Thomas asked, his voice sounding distant to his own ears.

Richard nodded sympathetically. 

“My plan,” he said, with immense dignity, “was to _pretend_ that it had worked.” And he’d outsmarted himself, as-per-bloody-usual. 

“Perfectly understandable,” Richard said. 

The night, at least, passed peaceably, and Terrence Gordon did not appear at breakfast, nor at Morning Meeting. Thomas made a quick exit before he _could_ turn up, and busied himself with newspaper business, first looking in on the repair crew at Lord Hexham’s cottage, and then interviewing Mr. Braceridge about a shooting party he was planning. 

When he made it back to the pressroom, he found Kit giving tea to Lord Hexham himself. “—doctor told me one more bout with malaria might carry me off,” the Marquess was saying. “So I was casting about for some suitably non-malarious spot when I heard about this place. Hullo,” he added, glancing up at Thomas. He was a pleasant-looking man in his late thirties or so, a bit suntanned. 

“Peter, this is Mr. Barrow, sub-editor and head pressman for the _Beacon_ ,” Kit said. “Thomas, Lord Hexham.”

Of course Kit would be on Christian-name terms with him—he was, technically, an Honorable. “My lord,” Thomas said. 

“Is that poor boy who came on the boat with me feeling any better?” Hexham asked. 

“I haven’t seen him,” Thomas said. It came out a bit more sharply than he had intended, and he added, “They had him in the infirmary, last I heard, my lord.”

“Ah,” said Hexham. “Well.”

“Thomas has just been looking in on your house,” Kit said quickly. “Haven’t you?”

“I have,” Thomas agreed, and considered what would happen if he told Lord Hexham he could read about it in the paper with everyone else. “They’ve nearly finished replacing the roof and repairing the chimney. Once that’s done, they’ll be able to begin work on the interior.”

“Hm,” said Hexham. “I’d like to go and have a look myself, but one doesn’t want them to feel rushed.”

Thomas retreated to the typesetting bench to work on his stories, and Kit and Lord Hexham resumed their interview, Hexham talking about how he’d considered a move to New York, only they had that dreadful Volstead Act. 

They had moved on to Hexham’s impressions of the village, and Thomas was getting his articles outlined, when Peter popped in. “Oh, I didn’t realize you had company already,” he said, something about his expression suggesting a lack of complete candor. “I’ve just brought my column.”

“Don’t mind me,” said Lord Hexham, politely. 

Kit introduced them, and Peter asked, “Have you met Lord Gerald yet?”

“Not yet,” said Hexham, “though I’ve been told I must.”

While they talked about Lord Gerald, Thomas put the kettle on and had a look at Peter’s column, which had to do with eggs—it seemed they were more complicated than Thomas would have guessed. 

“D’you like it?” Peter asked. “Joey asked me if I couldn’t write something easier for this time.”

Thomas nodded. “It looks good.” Most importantly, it was twelve column inches Thomas wouldn’t have to write himself. 

“Nealey’s told me he’s had a bit of extra demand for minced lamb, after last week’s.” 

Last week’s cookery column had been about shepherd’s pie. “Has he?”

“Fitzroy writes our cookery column,” Kit explained to Hexham. 

“I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to read it yet,” Hexham said politely. 

“Will you be looking for staff, once your house is ready?” Peter asked. 

“I haven’t entirely decided about that, either,” he answered. “In Tangiers, I only had a daily woman—didn’t need anything more; if anyone turned up that I had to give dinner to, I’d take them to a restaurant. I suppose it’ll be a bit different here.”

“As we’ve neither women nor restaurants,” Peter agreed. “Theo will have some ideas, when you’re ready to think about it. He used to be a butler. Speaking of Theo,” he went on, “He’s trying to organize some decent clothes and things for Terry Gordon. It seems he came with nothing but what he stood up in, poor lamb.”

“Should we put it in the paper?” Kit asked, while Thomas was still trying to wrap his head around the notion of Gordon as a _poor lamb_. Perhaps Peter hadn’t met him yet, but surely _Theo_ knew better. 

“Perhaps not,” Peter said delicately. “He might be embarrassed if he read it.”

“ _Can_ he read?” Thomas wondered aloud.

Peter blinked. “Didn’t think of that,” he said. “I don’t think we have any former schoolmasters here, but I’m sure someone will be able to teach him, if he can’t.”

That hadn’t been entirely what Thomas meant, but he let it pass. Lord Hexham regretted that everything he meant to give away had already gone to the poor of Tangiers, but Kit said that he’d have a look through his things when he got back up to the Main House. 

“Splendid,” Peter said. “Well, I’d best be getting back to the shop.”

Thomas saw him out, and walked across the churchyard with him. “You know Gordon’s…not very pleasant, don’t you?” he asked, just in case Peter was expecting to be _thanked_ , or something, for his efforts in that direction. 

“I’d heard. He’s very fond of Sergeant Tully’s favorite word, for one thing,” Peter said primly.

“It isn’t just that. Chances are he’ll bite your head off, if you so much as try to speak to him.” 

Peter didn’t say anything for a long moment, giving Thomas plenty of time to think about them at Downton laughing themselves sick over the idea of _him_ attempting to deliver a warning about someone else’s nastiness. “Well,” Peter finally said, “he’s hardly likely to get over it if no one’s nice to him first, is he?”

“And what if he doesn’t get over it?”

Peter shrugged. “Then he won’t, I suppose.”

When Thomas made it back to the dormitory that evening, Gordon was back among them, and every bit as charming as he’d been the day before. Alfie got up the courage to ask him if he’d been sedated the previous day because he’d punched one of the Clinic guards as well; Gordon gave him his reptilian glare, and said, “An’ I’ll do the same to any of you buggers as lays a finger on me.”

“I shouldn’t worry, darling,” Syl said—but not, Thomas noted, anywhere near loudly enough for Gordon to have heard him.

If it had only been Syl, Thomas would have put it down to his usual theatrics, but he was far from being the only one to seem impressed by Gordon’s posturing. He glared and snapped his way through dinner—which he did, at least, manage to keep down—and then breakfast and Morning Meeting the next day, and no one seemed to think of the simple expedient of giving him a clip ‘round the ear. Instead, they mostly stammered, backed away, and complained to Theo about it.

Since Thomas was already in the habit of spending most of his time at the newspaper cottage, he was not terribly affected by it all, but over the next few days, the grumbling was difficult to miss. “I’m not saying as the bloke hasn’t had a rough time of it,” Bill told him one day as they were doing the coal scuttles. “But I’m not here to be sworn at, am I?”

“Tell him,” Thomas suggested.

“Not sure he’d take it well, mate,” Bill said. 

“What’s he going to do? Swear at you some more?”

“I don’t see you doing it,” Bill pointed out.

“He doesn’t bother me,” Thomas said, truthfully. Gordon wasn’t saying anything he hadn’t heard before, and his repertoire of threatening glares reminded Thomas of nothing so much as a month-old kitten puffing itself up and hissing. 

Mealtimes became increasingly grim, as people tried to avoid saying anything that might provoke an outburst—which more-or-less meant avoiding saying anything at all—and Bill and Alfie eventually opted to squeeze in at another table. Thomas wouldn’t have minded doing the same, but Richard said, “We can’t leave poor Theo alone with him, can we?”

Thomas wasn’t entirely sure why _not_ , but decided not to argue the point.

As the middle of the week drew near, Thomas wondered a time or two what the little guttersnipe would make of Group. Wednesday’s Morning Meeting provided a hint of what was to come, as Gordon substituted rude words during the hymn-singing and loudly inquired of no one in particular whether Father Timothy—who was leading the meeting—“took it up the arse.”

“I see why you haven’t interviewed him for the paper yet,” Kit said, as the Meeting broke up. “I don’t suppose that anything he has to say would be printable.” He leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. “Perhaps we’ll just put a line in the story about Lord Hexham—‘Also arrived, Terrence Gordon, of London,’ et cetera.”

Thomas had been thinking along the same lines, but hearing Kit say it put his back up, somehow. “He ought to at least have the opportunity to say he doesn’t want to be interviewed,” he said. “I just haven’t gotten round to asking him yet.”

“Whatever you like,” Kit said dubiously. 

It was all very well for him to say that, but they would need to finalize layouts before the end of the day, so now that Thomas had committed himself to asking Gordon, he had to hurry up and do it. Once he’d rushed through doing the coal scuttles with Bill, he went looking for him.

Theo, who ought to have known where the little rodent was, was taking Lord Hexham down to look at his house, and no one else had much of an idea other than, “Not here, thank God.” 

Finally, someone admitted to having seen him heading upstairs, and Thomas found him in the dormitory, looming threateningly over Syl—quite a feat given that even Syl was half a head taller than Gordon was. “—grass on me, and you’ll wish you’d never been born, ennit?”

“Fine,” said Syl, with a sniffle and a jingle of coins. “Just take it and leave me alone!”

“Oi, oi, what’s this?” Thomas asked. 

“Keep walking, _mate_ ,” said Gordon.

Carefully considering his options, Thomas decided he wouldn’t, thanks. “Has he nicked your pillow again, Syl?”

“No, not—” Syl began, and then shrieked as Gordon drew back his fist. 

_Oh, for God’s sake_. Thomas stepped forward, grabbed Gordon’s arm, swung him around, and shoved him against the wall, twisting his arm up behind his back. Syl took advantage of this distraction to make a break for the door, although once he got there, he paused to take in the rest of the show.

Surprisingly enough—or not—all the fight seemed to have gone out of Gordon, and Thomas took a moment to think over what to do next. At Downton, he had every reason to know, accepted procedure would have been to inform Gordon that his next step out of line would have his teeth shoved through the back of his skull, but somehow, he was not entirely sure he could get away with going quite that far—and _Syl_ certainly couldn’t be relied upon to keep the incident to himself. So, instead, he said, “Have I made me point, here, or shall we keep going?”

“Yes,” Gordon squeaked.

 _“_ Yes, what?” he asked, since he’d given two options.

“Yes…sir?” Gordon essayed.

 _Honestly_. Thomas decided he’d take it, and released Gordon with a shove. “Any particular reason you’re giving Tanner, here, a hard time?”

“Cos…he’s a poof?” Gordon asked. 

“Yes, well,” Thomas said, straightening his cuffs. “So am I. And I think you’d better give him his money back.”

Eying him suspiciously, Gordon produced it—though he handed it to Thomas, not to Syl.

“It all there?” Thomas asked, handing it on to Syl. 

“He’s got my cigarette case, too,” Syl said, with a haughty lift of his chin. 

Thomas looked at Gordon, and he had another rummage through his pockets, eventually producing it. Syl scarpered, and Thomas sat down on his bunk, lighting a cigarette of his own, and asked, “What do you need money for, if you already had his cigarettes?”

“What’s it to you?”

In fact, Thomas had asked out of a vague sense that Peter might not _entirely_ approve of what he’d just done, but he didn’t see how that was any of Gordon’s business. “Just wondered.” Opening his trunk, he dug around for the cigarettes he’d had stashed in there since before The Clinic. “Here,” he said, tossing a pack in Gordon’s direction. “Emergency supply. Might be a bit stale.” 

Gordon sort of grunted, as he stuffed the cigarettes into his pocket, which Thomas supposed was the closest he was going to get to a thank-you. 

“Tell Theo, if there’s anything else you need,” Thomas added. “When I first got here, he was asking me every other minute if I needed anything, but I suppose he’s a bit busy, looking after Lord Hexham.” That, and Theo probably didn’t like being sworn at any more than Bill did. 

As Gordon was continuing to stare at him like he was some sort of zoo animal, Thomas supposed he’d better strike while the iron was—well, lukewarm, at least. “I was looking for you for a reason, as it happens.”

“Wot’s that?” asked Gordon, suspiciously.

Feeling a bit ridiculous, Thomas explained, “To ask if you wanted to be interviewed for the newspaper.” 

“Are you fucking mental?” Despite the swear word, his tone was one of innocent curiosity.

“No,” said Thomas. “And I didn’t think you would, but people are always interested in new arrivals.” He considered for a moment how to explain the vague sense of class solidarity that had motivated him to ask, then gave up and just said, “We’re giving Lord Hexham most of the front page.” 

“He can fucking well have it,” said Gordon. 

“Suit yourself.”

It wasn’t until he was about halfway down to the newspaper cottage that it occurred to Thomas that not only Peter, but _Dr. L._ might have an opinion about the way Thomas had chosen to handle the situation. It didn’t seem worth hoping he wouldn’t find out—there was some possibility that Gordon might be relied upon to keep the incident to himself, but _Syl_ certainly couldn’t. He was probably already telling the story to anyone who would stand still long enough to listen to it. 

But there were pages to set and proof—they were doing an eight-pager this week, and so had to get an early start on the printing—and Thomas more-or-less managed to put it out of his mind, at least until it was time to head back to the Main House for Group. 

As they walked, Kit chattered about the Group topic—it was Professor Dowdeswell’s one on Plato, which Kit had heard before—but Thomas paid little attention, thinking instead about what slant Syl might have chosen to put on the morning’s altercation, and what he could say if called upon to explain himself. 

The plain truth was, Gordon had been begging for a smacking since he’d got there—but the more Thomas thought about it, the less he could imagine Dr. L. agreeing on this point. That might, in fact, be precisely why no one else had tried it. 

Worse yet, when they got to the Meeting Room, Dr. L. was there, talking to Lord Hexham, Professor Dowdeswell, and a few of the gentlemen. Kit immediately abandoned Thomas to join them; Thomas, for lack of any better options, took his usual place with Morrow and Wilberforce. 

Syl wasn’t there yet, nor Gordon. After a moment’s hesitation, Thomas asked Morrow, “D’you know if Syl’s been saying anything?”

Morrow glanced over at him. “About what?”

“Nothing.” 

It was just as well Thomas hadn’t clarified; Syl and his retinue turned up a moment later, giving Thomas all sorts of strange looks. 

Gordon had still not appeared, but Dr. L. said something to the gentlemen, and they got down to business. As soon as Dr. L. asked who would like to begin, Syl sat bolt upright in his chair and looked meaningfully at Thomas, raising his eyebrows. Thomas did his best to ignore him, and Syl’s facial expressions grew more and more urgent, until at last Dr. L. said, “Syl, is there something you’d like to share?”

“Well,” Syl said, drawing the word out and giving Thomas one more urgent stare. “I’m not sure I should.” 

“Very well,” said Dr. L. “Anyone else?”

“But I suppose I must,” Syl added quickly. 

Here, he paused again, and one of his friends obligingly said, “Yes, you really must, darling.”

Simpering a bit, Syl said, “I’m sure I’m not the only one to have experienced some…unpleasantness.” He sent another searching look Thomas’s way. 

Dr. L. took a deep breath. “Thomas, have you anything to add?”

 _Bloody hell_. “Gordon was bothering Syl earlier, if that’s what he’s carrying on about. I got him to stop.” Thomas gave Syl a hard stare, and he didn’t challenge this characterization of the incident.

“I see,” said Dr. L. “I’m aware that Terrence has…had some difficulty adjusting to the community.”

“Well, I’m sick of it,” Syl declared. 

He seemed about to say something more, but then the door banged open, and Rouse frog-marched Gordon inside. Syl clammed up abruptly. 

There was a pair of empty seats on Thomas’s other side, and Rouse shoved Gordon into one of them, sitting himself down in the other. 

“Terrence,” said Dr. L., pleasantly. “How good of you to join us.”

Gordon opened his mouth, and shut it again when Rouse thumped him on the shoulder. “It seems he lost track of the time,” Rouse said. 

“Very well,” Dr. L. said. “Now that both our new arrivals are here, I’ll remind you that we begin Group with a period of free discussion, followed by the planned topic for the day….”

He nattered on about this for a bit, and Bill, who was sitting on the other side of Morrow, leaned across him to say, “I thought you and Syl didn’t get on.”

“We don’t,” Thomas told him. 

Oddly enough, no one found anything to say in the second round of the “period of free discussion,” and Dr. L. moved on into introducing Professor Dowdeswell, the former Oxford don, and the ancient Greeks, “A great civilization—perhaps the greatest of the ancient world—and one in which same-sex love had an acknowledged and honorable place.”

“Thank you,” said Dowdeswell, shuffling his notes. “As I see that we have some among us who have not had the benefit of a classical education, a few prefatory remarks may be in order….”

More than a _few_ , as it turned out. The old boy droned on at considerable lengths about the ancient Greeks and their influence on such things as democracy, art, and mathematics, only looking up from his notes to say “Hah!” and stab the air with a forefinger when he made some point which he evidently imagined to be particularly interesting or relevant. 

“And it was Pythagoras—hah!—who determined that the hypotenuse of a right triangle can be calculated from the squares of the other two sides, a fact the everyday utility of which,” here the professor peered around owlishly, “is so readily apparent, that I trust I need not elaborate.”

By this point, even the learned gentlemen in the Group were beginning to look a bit glazed-over, and Thomas rather thought that Gordon was speaking for everyone when he interrupted to enquire, “When do we get to the part about buggery, sir?”

Professor Dowdeswell gasped and fumbled his notes, but recovered much better than Thomas would have guessed, saying, “Well, as you ask, young man, it is something of a vexed question whether the Greeks in fact practiced…what you describe, or, to be more exact, what the British legal system describes in that way…though it is quite beyond doubt that they practiced what that same system describes as _acts of gross indecency_ between male persons.”

This led to an equally verbose, but considerably more interesting digression onto the subjects of precisely which indecent acts the ancient Greeks were known to have practiced. It was, by far, the closest any Group session had come to discussing the precise _mechanics_ of the sort of thing they were all here on account of doing. 

Even Gordon seemed interested, to the point when, after Dowdeswell made several references to “the intercrural connection,” he glanced back and forth between Rouse and Thomas and muttered, to no one in particular, “What’s that, then?”

“When somebody rubs his prick between your legs,” Rouse muttered back. 

Oh—was _that_ what it was called? Thomas considered writing it down in the notebook he carried for journalistic purposes, but decided he’d probably remember. 

“Perhaps,” Dr. L. put in, “you might move along to the _Symposium_ , Professor.”

“Ah, yes, the _Symposium_.” He rummaged through his notes. “It should be noted that the dialogic structure of Plato’s work—in which two or more speakers present differing views on a common subject—make it difficult to ascertain which, if any, of the views are Plato’s own. However, when it comes to our interest in the _Symposium_ , it is perhaps more important to appreciate that, first, in this dialogue on the subject of love, love between male persons is given an equal—if not greater—part than love of a, er, procreative nature, and secondly, that this subject is discussed openly and without embarrassment, by prominent figures, in a public setting. And it should also be noted that the burden of the discussion, throughout, is not _whether_ same-sex erotic love exists or should exist, but rather, what form of expression of that love—tacitly understood to be natural to all persons—should bring the greatest benefit to the individual and to society. Hah!” 

Dowdeswell went on to explain how the ancient Greeks typically paired off an older man a younger one. There were separate Greek words for these, but as they both started with _e_ and ended in _s_ , Thomas quickly gave up on remembering which was which. That proved to be unfortunate, as Dowdeswell apparently considered the terms untranslatable, and used them even when he read out passages in English. 

The general idea, however, seemed to be a sort of erotic mentorship, in which the elder man taught the other about philosophy and so forth, presumably in between bouts of _intercrural connection_. It all sounded more-or-less all right, though Thomas wondered whether ancient Greeks who didn’t happen to be philosophers might characterize things a little differently. 

He also found himself thinking of Phillip a time or two, particularly when Dowdeswell explained, “And so, Pausanias says, an _eromenos_ who gives himself up to an _erastes_ because he believes him to be rich, or otherwise able to advantage him materially, dishonors himself whether or not he proves to be mistaken in this matter of wealth or advantage.”

He didn’t specify whether the rich bloke dishonored himself or not, and moved on too quickly for Thomas to make up his mind whether or not he wanted to ask about the omission. 

Dowdeswell also told a rather odd story about how the “primeval man” had eight limbs and two faces, and had been split in half by the god Zeus, as punishment for something-or-other. These human octopuses had had three sexes—male, female, and both—and wandered the world searching for their other halves, or some reasonable facsimile thereof. “Those who had been male sought a male companion, those who had been female sought a woman, and the androgynous ones, those who had been both, sought the opposite sex.” He said something in Greek, then translated, “‘so ancient is the desire of one another which is implanted in us, reuniting our original nature, making one of two, and healing the state of man.’ This, Aristophanes says, is true love—the finding of one’s other half.”

There wasn’t much discussion this time, as Professor Dowdeswell went rattling on until the tea-trolley came—and, once it had, spent close to a quarter of an hour making what he repeatedly said was “one final remark.” When, at last, he finished, Thomas skipped the tea trolley and went outside, both because he wanted a smoke, and in case someone was able to remember as far back as the beginning of Group and tried to press him for details on what had happened with Syl and Gordon. 

As it turned out, he might as well have stayed long enough to get a cuppa. He barely had his cigarette lit when Rouse showed up. “He does go on a bit, doesn’t he?” Rouse asked cheerfully.

Thomas nodded. 

“Not quite how they teach Plato at grammar school,” he added. 

“I don’t imagine it is,” said Thomas, politely.

“Right,” Rouse said. “I’ll stop fucking about. This business with Syl—Gordon wasn’t actually _assaulting_ him, was he?”

“No,” Thomas said. “He was trying to make him give him money, is all.” He paused. “At least, that’s all I saw. What did Syl say?”

“Not much,” Rouse explained. “Which is why I wondered. He isn’t usually one to keep a grievance to himself.”

Thomas took a drag of his cigarette. “Gordon did tell him to keep his mouth shut, or else,” he noted. “I suppose he might have listened.”

“That’s probably it,” Rouse said. “I suppose I’d better turn out Gordon’s pockets, when Dr. L.’s finished with him.”

“Probably not a bad idea,” Thomas agreed. 

“Thanks for keeping an eye out,” Rouse added. “I knew he was going to need watching, but this business with Lord Hexham has kept me on the jump. I thought it’d ease off once he was actually here—more fool I.”

Thomas frowned. “What’s going on with Lord Hexham?” Things seemed peaceable enough on the gentlemen’s side of the dining room. 

Rouse glanced at him. “He’s given us an enormous pile of money.”

“Oh.” That explained the red-carpet treatment.

“Which is why Dr. L. was wooing him so ardently to begin with,” Rouse added. “Only it turns out spending it is even more work than getting it.” 

“Is it?” Thomas asked vaguely.

“Construction projects,” he clarified. “And I’m representing the interests of the working-class part of the village, so I don’t dare miss a meeting.” Taking a drag from his cigarette, he added, “That’s not for publication, by the way. Or not yet—suppose we might make an announcement to the press once we’ve sorted out what we’re doing.”

Thomas couldn’t quite tell whether he was taking the piss, with his reference to “the press,” and just nodded. 

“Any road,” Rouse continued, “young Gordon’s been getting rather short shrift, and I don’t imagine it’s been very pleasant for anyone.” 

“Not so as you’d notice, no,” Thomas agreed. Now that it was becoming increasingly evident that he wasn’t in trouble for shoving Gordon up against the wall, he began to feel obscurely irritated. He didn’t _want_ to be in trouble, of course, but given how many times he’d been called on the carpet for nothing more than saying unkind things to Syl, this ought to merit at least a mention. “I suppose he’s had a hard time of it.” 

Rouse nodded. “Mother’s a tart, older brother in prison. No father, of course. He’s been in and out of Borstal since he was about twelve—poor sod never had a fucking chance, did he?”

“No,” Thomas agreed. 

“And they sent him to The Clinic with a sentence pending, so if he can’t make a go of it here, it’ll mean prison.” He pinched his cigarette between thumb and forefinger, to smoke it down to the nub. “I know he isn’t the sort Dr. L. likes for this place, but….” He shook his head. “I can just about argue his case if it’s just Syl making a fuss—he knows what Syl’s like, from that business with you. But if any of the gentlemen get fed up, that’ll be that.” He took the last drag from the cigarette-end, dropping it and swearing as it singed his fingers, and shoved off for part of the house where the doctors worked.

Oddly enough, not only did the incident raise Thomas’s stock with Syl and his crowd—they no longer glared daggers at him any time he entered a room—but it seemed to have made some kind of an impression on _Gordon_ , as well. That evening at dinner, he plunked himself into the seat next to Thomas’s, glaring about as if he expected to be challenged on this point, and from then on, he seemed to be hanging about more often than he wasn’t. 

He even turned up at the newspaper offices, bang in the middle of the last-minute rush to get the final two pages laid out and printed. “What do you want?” Thomas asked him. 

“Nuffing,’” said Gordon, slinking over to the stove and warming his hands over it. 

“You can give us a hand with this, if you like,” said Peter, who, along with Kit, was frantically sorting type. “Er, how are you with your letters?”

“Fuck off,” Gordon said, and left. 

“I’m surprised Theo’s letting him out on his own already,” Peter commented mildly.

Thomas scoffed. “What makes you think he is?”

When the next week’s work assignments were handed out, Gordon was put on coal-scuttle duty with Thomas. He was given to understand, from those who’d had the pleasure of working with Gordon the previous week, that he shouldn’t expect much, but it only took Thomas dragging him along by the scruff of his neck once, before he fell into line and did his share of the job.

However, his success in the matter seemed to cement his status as the one who could Do Something About Gordon, and now people started coming to _him_ , rather than Theo, with their complaints. Thomas ignored most of these that didn’t have to do with violence or petty theft, but did introduce Gordon to a few of the broad strokes of civilized behavior. “Don’t say _fuck_ at the dinner table,” Thomas told him. “We aren’t in the fucking Army,” and “Don’t eat that with your fingers; we aren’t savages.”

The next time that Gordon showed up at the newspaper cottage, Thomas was by himself, working on an article. “Make yourself useful, and put the kettle on,” he said, fully expecting Gordon to tell him to fuck off, and then scarper.

Instead, he put the kettle on. He also, when Thomas told him to, brought in some more coal from the store-room and swept the floor—though not particularly well—before stuffing half of the newspaper’s supply of biscuits into his pockets and departing.

He showed up and did it again the next day—Kit had replenished the biscuits—and the third day, Thomas tried him out on sorting type. It turned out that Gordon did, in fact, know his letters—he’d learnt them at Borstal, apparently—though he was more than a bit wobbly when it came to stringing them together into actual _words_. 

Knowing the letters was enough to sort the hellbox, though, and Gordon was doing so, slowly but correctly, when Kit came back.

“Have we got a printer’s devil now?” he asked, casting a skeptical look at Gordon, who thrust out his chin and glared.

“Reckon we do,” Thomas said. “It’s all right; he works for biscuits and cigarettes.”

“Ah,” said Kit. “I wondered where those were going. Jolly good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The OC, Terry Gordon, was sent to The Clinic after an arrest for prostitution. At the time of the story, he's old enough to be sentenced as an adult; however, he also has an extensive juvenile record. Reading between the lines, it's likely that he was a sexually exploited child.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas goes to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: mention of suicide—see endnote for spoilery details.

“Thomas, did you notice you have a letter here?” Kit asked, standing by the hall table.

“Do I?” Thomas asked. He never checked, since no one knew he was here. But Kit was holding it out toward him, and it was, indeed, addressed to him. The return address was Downton Abbey, and for an instant, he thought _Jimmy_ , but of course it wouldn’t be. “How strange.” 

Telling Gordon he’d catch up with him in a bit, Thomas took the letter into the smoking room, which was bound to be empty, with everyone getting ready for dinner. There, he tore it open and immediately looked at the end for the signature—Mrs. Hughes. What on Earth could she want?

_Dear Thomas,_

_I hope that this finds you well, though I’m rather afraid that it won’t. We’ve only just heard your news, here, you see. We had started to wonder why we hadn’t heard from you about a reference, and Lord Grantham made an inquiry to the hospital where we last knew you to be. They informed us that your case had been ‘deemed incurable,’ as they put it, and that you had been sent on to a specialist sanitarium._

_We were all quite shocked, Lord Grantham included, and Mr. Carson went so far as to say that he wished he’d not allowed James to bully him into insisting that you submit yourself to treatment. Not that he used those precise words, you understand, but that is what he meant._

Thomas noticed, and promptly wished he hadn’t, that she made no mention of _Jimmy_ being sorry for anything. He read on,

_More importantly, his lordship is willing to make further enquiries as to whether some mistake may have been made. He learnt, in his communication with the hospital, that most of the patients were sent there by the courts. As you were there voluntarily, it seems very strange to us all that such a drastic step has been taken._

_In any case, I hope that the circumstances in which you find yourself are not too distressing, and that if there is anything more that we can do, you will let us know at once._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Mrs. Hughes_

It was something, Thomas supposed, to have it confirmed that he wasn’t the only one to find something ominous about the idea of his being sent to a remote asylum for incurable unmentionables—he still thought that punching someone was a perfectly reasonable reaction to this news, and was surprised more people didn’t do it. 

He supposed he also ought to be grateful that his lordship was willing to help—if he _were_ sitting in a cell wearing a straightjacket, eating gruel and befriending the local rats, or whatever lurid things them at Downton were imagining, it would certainly have been welcome news. But on the other hand, Lord Grantham could have saved everyone a great deal of trouble if he’d only deigned to lift a finger when Thomas was getting thrown out of Downton in the first place. 

He changed quickly and joined the others in the dining room. “Gordon says you’ve had a letter,” Richard greeted him. “Not bad news, I hope.”

“No,” Thomas said. “Just the housekeeper where I used to work. I was supposed to write for a reference after I’d been cured—they finally got around to noticing that I never did.” 

“Might not be a bad idea to get one,” Richard suggested.

He had a point. The _Beacon_ , while widely read on the island, wasn’t bringing in a great deal of advertising revenue. Peter continued to run regular adverts, and they had the butcher’s pig-slaughtering announcement for the next issue, but there simply wasn’t a great deal of business to be had. “Probably a good time to do it,” he agreed. “While they’re all pretending to care about me.”

Richard gave him a look of fond exasperation. “They might not be pretending, you know.”

Thomas scoffed. “If they wanted to help, they could have done it while I was at the bloody Clinic.” 

Gordon paused in shoveling food into his mouth to turn a suspicious look their way. “Wot’re you on about?”

“Getting a reference from my old place,” Thomas explained. “In case I want to find a job in service.”

“Thought you ‘ad a job.” 

“It doesn’t exactly _pay_ ,” Thomas said. 

“I have been wondering,” Richard added, “if we might manage to get some advertising from off the island. Mail-order houses, or something. The only trouble is, I haven’t the faintest idea how to start.”

Thomas raised a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s the _only_ problem?”

“Well, plenty of small village papers have advertisements from national firms.”

True, but most small village papers weren’t operating out of what was technically a psychiatric asylum. “Suppose it’s worth a shot.” 

The next day, after Morning Meeting, Theo told Thomas that Dr. L. wanted to see him. This wasn’t as alarming as it would have been a while ago, but it wasn’t _entirely_ without trepidation that Thomas made the trek over to the doctor’s office. 

“Mr. Barrow,” he said, setting aside the latest issue of the _Beacon_ and gesturing Thomas into the seat in front of his desk. “I must say, you and Mr. Norridge have done a real service to our community with the newspaper.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Thomas, warily. 

“In fact, I’ll soon have a rather exciting announcement to make, and I do believe the paper is just the place to do it.”

Relaxing fractionally, Thomas said, “Very good, sir.” Thinking of how Theo had announced their first-issue scoop when most of the paper was already _printed_ , he added, “If you let us know when you’re planning to make the announcement, I expect we’ll hold open the front page for it.” 

Dr. L. nodded. “I do think you’ll find it an important story. It may be next week, but I’ll let you know when I’m sure.” 

At least he didn’t want them to cram it in this week. “Yes, sir.”

He shifted his weight, preparatory to standing up, but instead of dismissing him, the doctor said, “And both Theo and Dr. Rouse tell me you’ve been a great help with Mr. Gordon.”

Once more on full alert, Thomas said, “That’s kind of them to say.”

Dr. L. looked at him expectantly for a moment, then changed the subject. “I’ve had a letter from your people.”

If it hadn’t been for the letter from Mrs. Hughes, Thomas would have had no idea who he could possibly be talking about. “The people I used to work for, you mean, sir?”

“Yes—a Lord Grantham. He seems to be under the impression you’re here against your will.”

Thomas very carefully did not say that it was unsurprising that The Clinic had left him with that impression, what with the _drugging_ and all. “Sir?” Whatever impression his lordship had got, it was fast work. Someone—it must’ve been Mrs. Hughes, as it couldn’t possibly have been Carson—must have lit a fire under his feet. 

“I know your arrival here was…well. I rather thought you had settled in.”

“Yes, sir.” Did Dr. L. think he’d been complaining? Was that what this was? “I just had a letter from the housekeeper there. Apparently they’d started to wonder what had become of me.” That ought to clarify that he hadn’t been telling them anything, complaints or otherwise. “I was meant to write them for a reference after I’d been cured.”

“I see,” said Dr. L. “Well, you’ve not been _cured_ , of course, but when you’re finished with Newcomers Group, I would be able to say, in good conscience, that you had completed a course of treatment.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Thomas, automatically. Given that Downton seemed to have had a collective attack of conscience where he was concerned, they might conveniently “forget” that cure had been a condition of granting him a reference, but his reply to Mrs. Hughes was going to be a tricky balancing act, and no mistake. If he wound up reassuring them too much, he might need what Dr. L. was offering.

“I must say, you seem…happy enough, with the paper and everything. Are you thinking of making a change?”

“I do enjoy working on the paper, sir,” he agreed, and wondered whether there was any benefit in pointing out the central problem. The matter of cigarettes and other necessities aside, he didn’t especially want to stay in the dormitory forever, and he had a half-formed impression that ability to _pay_ had some role in moving out of it. 

But that seemed like a better question for Rouse or Theo—not to mention, he rather enjoyed the status he got from being a member of the Press, and grubbing around after money was bound to remind everyone that he was really just a servant. “But I have some thinking to do, in that line.” 

“I see,” said Dr. L., and waited. 

Thomas waited a bit, as well, and then said, “Is there anything else, sir? Only I’ll be wanted down at the paper.”

“Of course. I won’t keep you.”

When Thomas left the office, he found Gordon leaned up against the wall, trying to keep his cigarette out of the rain. He pushed off the wall and fell into step beside Thomas. “What’d _he_ want?”

“The people I used to work for wrote to him,” Thomas said. 

“About that reference?”

“Yeah.” Gordon didn’t say anything else, but kept shooting him sidelong glances, so Thomas explained, “I don’t think it matters much, here, really, but normally, when you’re a servant, once you’ve been sacked without a reference, you’re pretty much done for. In fact—” 

He’d been about to describe Ethel’s fall from grace, but realized at the last moment that Gordon might think there was something pointed in it. 

“Wot?” asked Gordon, slowing his steps. 

“It means they’ve noticed they treated me badly, that’s all,” Thomas said. “Shift it, now; I want to get out of the rain.”

The next couple of days were busy ones. Thomas was writing the front-page story, about the autumn pig-slaughtering. Kit had presented this as something of an honor, but when the time came to actually cover this momentous occasion, Thomas wondered if it wasn’t more a matter of his not being _especially_ keen on standing in a muddy farmyard watching pigs scream their last. 

Not only that, but the whole thing happened only two days before the paper came out, so Thomas was writing the article as he was setting and printing. To add further to the difficulty, it was to be their first _illustrated_ edition. Kit had gotten Bill Thorn—the woodcarver who sold things at Peter’s shop—to carve a printing block based on a sketch Victor had done at last year’s pig-killing. It turned out rather well, but the wood block was a different thickness than their metal type _and_ it took the ink differently, so it took quite a bit of experimenting to get it to come out right. 

“Next time we do an illustration,” Thomas said grimly, “we’ll print the picture first, then run the pages through again to do the text.”

Kit opened his mouth and closed it again.

“What?”

“Now that you mention it, that might be how it’s usually done,” he admitted. “And there may be a different kind of ink, that’s used for pictures.”

Thomas only growled in reply.

Everyone _was_ rather impressed, though. “Now it looks like a proper paper,” Bill said at breakfast. 

“Now it is?” asked Gordon. “What the f—” At Thomas’s glare, he omitted the next word. “Whad’ya think it was before?”

Thomas, who had been rather wondering that himself, slipped Gordon an extra sausage. He hadn’t actually said “fuck,” after all.

With the paper out, they always had a few light days before work on the next edition got into full swing, and Thomas decided it was as good a time as any to figure out a reply to Mrs. Hughes. After doing the coal scuttles, he settled down at one of the tables in the library. _Dear Mrs. Hughes,_ he wrote.

“Ent we goin’ to the paper?” Gordon demanded.

“I’ve a letter to write first,” Thomas told him. “Go on ahead if you like—Kit’s already down there.” 

Gordon stomped off, and Thomas wrote, _I’m well enough, thank you for asking_ , then stared at the blank page for a while. 

Really, he chided himself, this oughtn’t to be difficult. He was a journalist now—sort of—and shouldn’t be defeated by a simple letter.

He crumpled up the page and started again. _Dear Mrs. Hughes, I’m well enough now, thank you for asking. The attempted cure was_ , he hesitated over the choice of words, before deciding on, _unpleasant, and it took them some time to conclude that it wasn’t working. If Lord Grantham really didn’t know what the place was like, I’m relieved to hear it._

No, that wouldn’t do at all. Perhaps if he took out the _really_ —but even then, it was saying more than he wanted to. He considered starting over again, but decided to keep on—he could write a clean copy once he’d figured out what he wanted to say.

Emboldened by the knowledge that this was now definitely _not_ the final version, he went on more fluidly. _I’m sorry if you were alarmed by the news of my being sent here. I didn’t know what to expect of it either, but it’s turned out to be very civilized. The doctor in charge here has some rather advanced ideas about the matter in question, and the aim of the course of treatment here is to help us to live comfortably with our condition—there’s a bit of the talking cure, along with improving lectures, wholesome pastimes, fresh air and so forth. The place takes private patients as well, and I gather they choose pretty carefully whom to take on, so on the whole we’re a well-behaved lot._

A sudden thought occurred to him, and he added, _In fact, it reminds me quite a bit of when we had the convalescent home._

That ought to give a suitably reassuring picture, Thomas thought. Now, how to work around to the matter of the reference….

One thing he had learned, writing for the paper, was to figure out what the people reading the story needed to know, that they didn’t already know, to understand the point of the article. If Mrs. Hughes was picturing an ordinary sort of mental asylum, she would certainly not understand why a reference from Downton Abbey would be of any use to him. Considering, he wrote on.

_What’s really unusual about the place (besides the obvious!) is that it is on a privately-owned island, and as everyone on it is associated with the sanitarium, we can pretty much come and go as we please—there is a small village, a substantial home farm, and even a game preserve with a sort of shooting and fishing lodge, in addition to a converted hotel which we call the Main House. The general idea is to live as normal a life as possible in terms of occupation, lodgings, etc. Everyone starts out in the Main House, but after the initial course of treatment, one is free to make other arrangements._

Thomas was still not _entirely_ sure about the relationship between Newcomers’ Group, paid employment, and living outside the Main House, but he supposed that what he’d said at least made _sense_ , even if it might not be completely accurate. He went on,

_The doctor in charge tells me that I am not far from reaching that stage, so I am beginning to think about employment. I haven’t quite decided what I’ll do. Lately, I’ve been helping to launch the village newspaper—a gentleman who’d been in that line before coming here bought a press and then realized he didn’t know how to operate it. Helping him get it set up, I found it all rather interesting, and now I’m doing some of the writing, and most of the typesetting._

Why was he telling her that? For one thing, she’d hardly believe it. Though—his eye fell on a nearby copy of the paper—perhaps he could prove it.

 _I’ll enclose the first page of our latest edition,_ he wrote. There was nothing shocking in it—the front page just had the pig story and a notice about auditions for a production of _The Importance of Being Earnest_ , and the reverse side was Peter’s cookery column, Dr. Hartley’s hints for avoiding winter colds, and the butcher’s advert. _As you’ll see, we are not overburdened with what Mr. N.—the owner of the press—calls “hard news,” but people here seem to find it interesting._

Thomas reviewed the paragraph, and liked it—except that the point of it all was to get the reference, not to prove that he wrote for a village newspaper. Perhaps he’d take out that entire part, but for now, he’d press on.

_The only difficulty is that we’ve not found a way to make it a paying proposition. Mr. N. has private means and so is unbothered, but_

He crossed out that last sentence and substituted, _Another gentleman, a Lord H., who has recently arrived, will be staffing his house soon, so there may be something suitable there._

Would that do? If they’d forgotten that he was supposed to be cured before he got a reference, Thomas didn’t want to be the one to remind them. 

On the other hand, it didn’t seem the sort of thing that would slip Carson’s mind. How about….

A _s we are all the same sort here, there is little danger of a misunderstanding such as what happened with James._

No, definitely not. He crossed that out, too, and wrote, _In terms of a character, I expect he will be most interested in what the doctor here has to say, but it wouldn’t hurt if I could supply a reference from my last place._

That was too breezy—he could just imagine Carson’s eyebrows, hearing it—but now the morning was half gone. Stuffing the letter and newspaper page into an envelope, he shoved it into his pocket and hurried down to the newspaper office, where Kit was sitting at the typesetting bench. “There you are,” he said. “I was starting to think you’d run off.”

“I was writing a letter,” Thomas said. “Didn’t Gordon tell you?”

“Haven’t seen him,” Kit said. “Can I ask what the letter was about?”

“Trying to find a way to ask them at Downton for the reference they promised me after I was cured, without drawing attention to the fact that I haven’t been,” Thomas answered. 

“Reference for what?” Kit asked.

Thomas found that he didn’t particularly want to explain that he was thinking of taking a job as a servant with Kit’s new friend Lord Hexham. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “What stories have we got coming up?”

As they were divvying up the reporting chores, Gordon slunk in and began noisily and ineffectually sweeping the floor.

Thomas decided not to ask.

#

The next morning, when the rest of them got up, Gordon was gone from the room. That wasn’t particularly unusual—he sometimes got up early and went scrounging around the kitchens for extra food. His bed was rumpled, which _was_ a bit unusual—apparently, making one’s bed was firmly insisted upon at Borstal, and Gordon had retained the habit—but Thomas didn’t think much of it until they got down to the dining room, and Gordon wasn’t there, either.

Gordon might skive off from Morning Meeting, Group, church, and chores, but meals were one thing he _never_ missed, even if he had been scrounging down at the kitchens. 

Theo turned up a moment or two after Thomas. “Where’s Terry?” he asked.

“I’m not his minder,” Thomas pointed out, a bit more sharply than he’d meant to.

Glancing back and forth between them, Richard said, “I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

But he didn’t. Thomas finished eating and lingered over his tea, long enough that Kit came over. “I’m just heading down to the paper,” he said. They usually walked down together. “You coming?”

“I’ll be along,” he said, deciding in that moment that he’d best find out what Gordon was up to.

The first place he checked was the kitchens—they hadn’t seen him. “Not today,” one of the workers added. “Why, what’s he done?”

“Nothing.”

He wasn’t in the smoking room, either—or any of the common rooms—nor in the barnyard, where he occasionally went and stared at the animals. On the way back in, he ran into Theo, leaving the doctors’ wing. “I thought he might be ill,” Theo explained. “But Rouse hasn’t seen him, either.”

Perhaps he _was_ ill, and had crawled off somewhere, like a cat, Thomas thought. Lacking any better ideas, he went back upstairs, on the off chance that Gordon might have gone back to bed while no one was looking. He hadn’t, and nor was he in the lavatory—being sick or otherwise. 

But the unmade bed caught his eye, somehow, and he paused to look at it. There was a tin box sitting in the middle of it all, half-hidden by the rumpled blankets. Thomas recognized it—Gordon was still in the habit of stuffing his pockets with biscuits, bread-rolls, and any other portable foodstuffs that came into his reach. After Thomas and Theo had both failed to break him of this habit, and in the face of rising complaints about the unsanitary nature of this collection and its potential to attract vermin, Rouse had supplied the box as an interim solution. Gordon normally kept it under his pillow, and guarded it like a miser’s gold.

Picking it up, Thomas half-expected Gordon to pop out of nowhere and swear at him for touching it. He didn’t, and Thomas opened the lid. 

The box was empty. 

_Fuck me blind_. 

Tossing the box back on the bed, he turned to the crate where Gordon kept his things. He fully expected to find that empty as well, but instead he found that both of Gordon’s suits were there, and his coat, and pretty much everything else that Thomas knew he had—apart from the rags he’d shown up in. 

You could get nicked for stealing clothes, Thomas thought distantly.

Grabbing his own coat, he hurried down to the village, to the harbor. There were only two boats kept at the island—a motor launch for Dr. L.’s trips to the mainland, and a rowboat used for fishing. Both were where they belonged, and the harbormaster confirmed that there had been no unscheduled visitors. “Why?” he asked.

Thomas shook his head. “Have you seen Terry Gordon?”

“No—why, what’s he done?”

“I’m not sure,” Thomas said. 

Everyone else he asked gave him the same reply. Gordon hadn’t been in Peter’s shop, or in any of the others, or in the church—unlikely, but Thomas was running out of ideas—or the village hall. The pub wasn’t open yet, but he found Sergeant Tully around the back, and asked him, too. 

“Haven’t seen him today,” he said. “Why, what’s going on?”

It took Thomas a moment to register that he hadn’t said _what’s he done_? “He was gone when we got up this morning, and I think he’s run off,” Thomas blurted out.

 _“Fuck_ ,” said Tully, with great feeling. “Have you checked the boats?”

Thomas nodded. “First thing. So he can’t have got far, but no one’s seen him, and….”

“All right, lad,” said Tully, opening the back door and ushering Thomas inside. “You don’t think he’s just off doing summat on his own?”

Thomas shook his head. “He never misses meals, and they haven’t seen him in the kitchen. And he took....” He hesitated over how to explain about the box, and gave up. “His old clothes. Left all the stuff Theo found for him.” Tully would understand what that meant.

He did. “Bloody hell. Does he know it’s a fucking island?”

“He has to,” Thomas said. “It’s in the name of the paper.” Though he hadn’t known how to pronounce it, when Thomas had been checking if he knew how to read. _Fuck_. Did he know what an island _was_ , exactly? Did they teach them that at Borstal?

And even if he did know what an island was, did he understand that, apart from their village, there was sweet fuck-all on it? Thomas didn’t have vast experience of London’s slums, but one thing he did know about them was that they were _crowded_ —families of ten living in a single room, and that sort of thing. The idea of a whole island sitting there empty might not make much sense to him.

“He might not understand there’s nowhere he can get on foot,” Thomas admitted. “He isn’t _stupid_ , he just…there’s a lot he doesn’t know.”

“Aye,” said Tully. “I know the sort.” He lit a cigarette. “I don’t suppose he can fucking _swim_ , either,” he continued, with a hint of a question. Thomas shook his head. “And he isn’t thick enough to try?” 

“No,” Thomas said. “He must still be on the island, I see that.” He lit a cigarette of his own. “When he figures out he can’t get anywhere, he’ll know he’s got to come back. Or when it starts to get dark.” Gordon got a bit spooked walking to the house from the newspaper cottage at night; now it was getting dark so early, he always hung about to walk with Thomas and Kit. 

“Aye,” Tully said. “But I’m not sure we should wait, son.” He glanced over at the window. “Has he got a fucking _coat_?”

“No,” Thomas said, swallowing hard. And it was a cold day, with a biting wind, and a gray sky threatening rain. “He left his coat.” 

Tully shook his head. “All right. Gimme a minute to get the lads together. Does Rouse know?”

Thomas shook his head. “Not unless he worked it out on his own.”

“Go and tell him,” Tully ordered. At Thomas’s uncertain look, he added, “No point making a fucking secret of it. Rouse is one of us, and even if he wasn’t, it ent like they’re going to shoot the little sod for desertion.”

He had a point.

“We might want Theo, too,” Tully added. “We’ll meet back here at the pub.”

Thomas was sufficiently relieved to have someone else taking charge of the situation that he asked no further questions. He found Theo and Rouse together, conveniently enough, in the front hall. “—taking it especially well,” Rouse was saying. “He might’ve—” He caught sight of Thomas. “You haven’t found him, have you?”

It wasn’t really a question. Thomas shook his head. 

“No one else has seen him, either,” Rouse said. “We’re starting to get a bit worried. Theo’s going to check his things, see if anything’s missing, and I’m going down to the harbor—”

“The boats haven’t been touched,” Thomas said. “He emptied out his box—all his biscuits and whatnot—and he’s got his old clothes on. Left everything else. Sergeant Tully’s—” He realized abruptly that he didn’t actually know _what_ Tully was putting in motion. “Getting the lads together,” he said, and hoped Rouse would either know what that meant, or pretend that he did. “He’d like you to meet him at the pub. Both of you, if you’re free,” he added.

“Oh,” said Rouse. “Well, that saves us some time.”

“I’m going to get his coat,” Thomas added, starting for the stairs. 

Theo joined him. “I still want to have a look at his things. There might be some kind of clue to what he was thinking.”

That struck Thomas as unlikely—considering Gordon was barely literate, he’d hardly have left a _note_ —but he didn’t argue. 

While Thomas got Gordon’s coat, and his own gloves and flat cap, Theo had a quick rummage. “He’s left his razor, and his toothbrush,” Theo noted.

“Is that a surprise?” Gordon wasn’t especially in the habit of using either, and in any case, could go about a week before accumulating enough stubble to be positively offensive. 

“Well,” Theo said. Then, “I suppose he could be thinking of living in the woods like some kind of wild man, but you’d think he’d have taken his _coat_.”

Of course he bloody well hadn’t. Gordon’s coat was a grade or two nicer than Thomas’s—it must’ve been one of the gentlemen who’d donated it. “No,” Thomas said. “That coat’s worth more than he is. He’d not risk taking it.”

Frowning, Theo moved toward the door. “What do you mean? Did he say something about what he was planning?”

Thomas gave him a sharp look. If he’d known Gordon’s plans and kept them to himself, he’d hardly be raising the alarm now, would he?

“Something that didn’t seem significant until now, maybe,” Theo added.

Oh. “Just what he said to us all.” They started down the stairs. “He’s not a poof, and he wants to get out of here and back to the Smoke. Or at least somewhere with a fucking chippy,” he added. That part, Gordon might not have shared with everyone, but Thomas had heard plenty about the island’s lack of that hallmark of civilized life, the fish-and-chips shop. Returning to the subject of the coat, he added, “He’s already got a sentence pending, but maybe he figures there’s a chance Dr. L. won’t set the rozzers on him if he doesn’t steal anything on his way out.” 

Rouse had collected his own coat and was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. Rouse told him, “Thomas thinks he’s trying to get back to London.”

“I don’t know what else he’d be doing,” Thomas temporized. “He won’t get anywhere on foot, of course, but I’m not sure he knows that.” 

“It’s a good working theory,” Rouse said. “He ran off from Borstal a few times, and he only got caught the one time he burgled the kitchen first. After that, he left with what he came in with, and they didn’t bother him again until he got nicked for something else.” They went outside, pausing to put their hats on. “I’d have bet on him trying to stow away on the supply boat, but he might not know that’s the only way off the island—I don’t remember telling him.”

He glanced at Thomas, who shook his head. He didn’t remember the subject coming up. 

“In the East End, you go a couple of streets away from home, and you might as well be on another planet,” Rouse continued. “I could see him figuring that he can find another village where they don’t know him, and slip onto their boat when they ent looking.”

“I see,” Theo said, sounding oddly relieved about it. “So you don’t think he’d….”

Rouse caught on to his meaning before Thomas did. “No, I haven’t seen any signs he’s thinking of harming himself.” He glanced at Thomas. “Have you?”

“No,” Thomas said. “And I reckon that’s what he’s been saving up food for. Running off, I mean.” And why he’d wanted Syl’s money—he’d bet the people in charge of a Borstal didn’t care much about stealing from the other inmates. In any case, it didn’t seem likely he’d taken his collection of stale biscuits and table scraps as a last meal, when he could have just killed himself after breakfast. 

“Yeah,” Rouse agreed. “I figured he just felt better having something put by—you get that, with people who’ve gone hungry a lot—but it looks like I got that one wrong.”

They found a surprisingly large crowd at the pub: the whole RAMC drinks group—most of whom had turned out in their Army greatcoats for the occasion—plus Mr. Braceridge, Kit, Richard, Morrow, and several others. Mr. Braceridge was busily handing out hand-copied maps of the island, and Thomas was a little worried this was about to turn into a game of make-believe, but he ceded the floor without complaint when, after a brief consultation with Rouse, Tully cleared his throat. 

It wasn’t quite a “hut,” but it had the same effect on the RAMC lads—Rouse included—as it if it had been one, and everyone else soon copied them, at least as far as facing Tully and shutting up.

“All right,” said Tully. “We figure the lad’s gone looking for a way off the island. He ent a country lad, so there’s no guarantee he’ll find his way back once he figures out there ent one. And we’re a little worried about hypothermia—he’s got food, but he ent got a coat—and about him breaking his fucking neck if he’s still out there wandering around after dark.”

He went on to organize the group into search parties and assign each an area to search. Thomas got Tully and Peter for his group, and they would search along the coast, starting counterclockwise from the harbor, on the theory that this was the most likely route for Gordon to have taken. “He might be cold and scared enough he’s happy to be caught by anyone at all,” Tully said, “but if he ent, better his friends find him.” 

Rouse, Kit, and Richard would search the coast in the opposite direction, and the remaining parties would cover the interior of the island. Mr. Braceridge, as the most experienced outdoorsman, got the job of going up the mountain, with the two RAMC lads who were best at First Aid, since if Gordon _had_ managed to get himself badly hurt, the mountain was the likeliest place for him to do it.

Each group was issued a coat or blanket, for warming up Gordon when they found him, and a rucksack of emergency equipment. These had been prepared by Mr. Braceridge, but they were sensible enough—as many electric torches as could be rounded up and lanterns for the rest, some basic first aid supplies, rope in case anyone needed to be pulled out of a bog, some iron rations in case they were stuck somewhere. The only bit of embroidery was a packet of signal flares for each group, which Mr. Braceridge had evidently sent away for after the camping trip. 

“We won’t be able to see them from every part of the island, I’m afraid,” he said, “but they should be better than nothing.”

Tully allowed Mr. Braceridge to explain how to set off the flares, but took charge of explaining the signals, which were thus refreshingly free of nonsense: two flares, sent up in quick succession, would indicate that Gordon was found and everyone could go home. If a group found Gordon and needed assistance getting him home, they’d send up a single flare, repeating it at quarter-hour intervals to guide the other searchers to their position. Father Timothy, who was excused from searching on grounds of rheumatism, was issued two flares to signal if Gordon returned on his own. 

“Don’t you think,” Mr. Braceridge said hopefully, “that when the all-clear signal is given, the other parties should repeat it, to make sure everyone sees?”

Thomas was fairly sure that Mr. Braceridge just wanted to be sure he’d get to play with the flares, but since he’d bought them, Tully conceded the point, provided Mr. Braceridge did not mind getting more for the next emergency. 

Unsurprisingly, Mr. Braceridge did not mind. 

After that, it was just a matter of dissuading Mr. Braceridge from the notion that Wilberforce—who had, of course, accompanied Morrow to the assembly—would be of any use as a bloodhound, collecting packets of sandwiches that Jessop and a few others had put together for the searchers, smoking a final cigarette, and knocking back the “rum ration”—actually whiskey—that Tully passed around.

Thomas wasn’t terribly surprised that no one pointed out that it might improve Gordon’s attitude if they waited until he was _really_ cold and miserable to find him—people who weren’t him didn’t seem to say that sort of thing out loud—but he _was_ a bit surprised that no one even grumbled much about the little ingrate putting them to all this trouble. The closest anyone got was a glance at the darkening sky and the observation that he’d “sure picked a day for it.” 

They set out, Thomas’s group and Rouse’s walking together as far as the harbor. “We’ll find him,” Richard said bracingly. “He’s probably wandering around in circles half a mile from home.” 

“Yeah,” Thomas said. People kept saying things like that to him—he wasn’t sure why. “Wish he’d said something about what he had in mind, though. Could’ve told him it was no use, saved us all a lot of trouble.”

The others all exchanged glances. “Yes,” Richard agreed. “That would have been helpful.” There was something a little strange in his tone. 

“I mean,” Thomas added, “he’s been talking about leaving since he got here, but he seemed to be settling in some.” 

“Yeah,” Rouse agreed. “I thought so, too. Seems to like helping with the paper, and everything.” 

They all considered that for a moment. “He’s not a bad lad,” Thomas offered. “Just a bit….”

“Feral,” Rouse suggested. It was as good a word as any. 

They parted solemnly, setting off in opposite directions along the coast. Thomas was deep in thought. What _could_ have driven Gordon to run off, now in particular? It didn’t seem likely that anyone had been picking on him, or—possibly worse, in Gordon’s eyes—making passes at him. Most of the others gave Gordon a pretty wide berth, apart from the occasional attempt to pity him. 

Nor could he possibly have gotten alarming news from home—Gordon had never gotten a letter, and wouldn’t have been able to read it on his own if he had. And if he’d done something he feared getting in trouble for, surely someone would have told Thomas about it by now. 

Thomas even went to the extreme lengths of examining his own conscience, but couldn’t think of anything he might have done to make Gordon want to run away. He’d not spoken harshly to him in the last day or two—not that Gordon seemed to mind being spoken harshly to. 

“All right?” Peter asked, breaking into his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Thomas said. “You didn’t hear about Gordon getting up to anything yesterday morning, did you?” He had, after all, been unaccounted-for the entire time that Thomas had been working on his letter. 

Peter shook his head. “He was in the shop for a bit,” he offered. “I asked him if he needed anything, but he just told me to fuck off and left.” 

“He didn’t come by the pub,” Tully said. “Wish he had—Rouse asked me an’ Jess to see if we couldn’t look out for him a bit. Hadn’t quite got round to it yet.”

Thomas would have bristled at the implication that he wasn’t doing a good enough job on his own of looking out for Gordon—except that the circumstances rather strongly suggested he _wasn’t_. 

All in all, Thomas didn’t mind too much when the terrain became too rough for much talking. Once they got away from the village, the island’s coast alternated between steep bits of rocky scree and salt marsh that threatened to suck your shoes off at every step. “Smells a damn sight better than the mud we had in France,” Tully observed, when they all stopped to scrape some of it off their feet. “But it’s no’ any fucking lighter.”

“‘Half of the world’s in a sandbag,’” Peter recited.

Thomas finished it for him. “‘And the other half’s plastered on us.’”

Truly, it wasn’t quite that bad, although they were all damp to the knees well before the rain started. That, too, wasn’t as bad as it could have been—a steady, miserable drizzle, rather than a true driving rain—but the stiff wind flung it at you. 

It also made the next steep bit even slipperier than the ones before, which was a greater trial for Peter than for anyone else, as he only had one hand to catch himself with. Thomas and Tully soon got the hang of steadying him when he needed it, but Thomas was still a bit relieved to get past it and be plodding through mud again.

The steep areas were so rocky that Thomas doubted even Mr. Braceridge’s Red Indians would be able to track anyone across them, and the marshes too wet to leave anything as helpful as a shoe-print, but there were some hints that something larger than a rabbit had passed this way—flattened grass, the occasional deep impression where someone might have stepped in an especially wet bit and had to pull his foot out. “Could have been a deer,” Tully said, examining one of these and drinking from his flask. 

“You think?” Peter asked. 

“Fucked if I know.”

They pressed on. The rain got heavier, and the mainland, which had been curving away from the island as they moved up the coast, fell out of sight. It would have been around here, Thomas thought, that Gordon—if he had come this way at all—would have begun to have grave doubts about his plan. 

“Please don’t think I’m complaining,” said Peter—who probably hadn’t complained when they cut his arm off—as they started up a rise, “but were we thinking of stopping for lunch?”

Thomas hadn’t really thought about it one way or the other, but Tully said, “Yeah,” and took out the map. “If I’m right about where we are, the cove’s just up ahead.” Peter brightened at this, and Tully explained to Thomas, “There’s a sorta hut there—get us out of the fucking rain for a minute.”

Oh, thank God. 

“And once we’re past the cove, it’s not too much further before we can start looking for the others,” Peter added cheerfully. The plan was for the two groups searching the coastline to keep going until they met up, then turn back. 

So that meant that the search was almost half over—good news, except that they hadn’t found Gordon yet, nor seen any flares indicating that anyone else had. In the unrelenting, low-grade misery of hiking miles over bad ground in the rain, Thomas had let the object of it all slip from his mind. _We’re here because we’re here because we’re here_ , as they’d said in the War. But they had a job to do, and they hadn’t done it yet.

It was also—Thomas surreptitiously checked his watch as they crossed a less-than-averagely-treacherous stretch—now hours past lunchtime, and lately, it had been getting dark not long after tea. 

They reached the crest of the rise, and below them was a semicircle of sandy beach, cupping the gray, choppy sea. Someone or other had mentioned a place where they went for sea-bathing on warm days, and Thomas supposed this must be it. No one in his right mind would think of bathing in what Thomas was looking at, but the water in the cove _was_ considerably calmer than outside, and the sandy shore was more welcoming than anything they’d seen since leaving the harbor.

The hut that Tully had spoken off also looked more promising than Thomas had feared—he’d wondered if it might be a ramshackle pile of sticks that let in as much rain as it kept out, but from here, it looked sturdy enough, and a gleam of reasonably fresh paint suggested it had been kept up.

The only trouble was, standing between it and them was a downslope steeper than anything they’d faced yet. There were a few determined shrubs and scrubby little trees clinging to it, which might, if you were lucky, break your fall. 

“Well,” said Tully, lighting a cigarette. “Let’s have a fucking think about this, shall we?”

The rest of them lit up as well, Peter optimistically pointed out something that looked like it might have been a deer trail. 

“Aye,” said Tully. “It probably ent too bad if you’ve got four fucking legs.”

But it did at least give them a place to start, and they planned a route, zig-zagging across the slope and avoiding the most blatantly hazardous bits, and settled on a marching order. “I might as well go first,” Tully explained. “You two ent gonna catch me if I take a tumble.”

It was true; Tully was the largest of them by far, and if they even tried to break his fall, they’d end up going down with him. Peter would obviously go next, though nobody said anything about why. Being the farthest of any of them from having four fucking legs, Peter was going to have a worse time of it than the other two. 

They finished their cigarettes, and Tully took a nip from his flask. “Ent gonna get any better standing here looking at it,” he finally said, and they started down.

It was slow going, the tedium of inching along occasionally enlivened by the terror of having a foot slide out from under you. Tully landed on his well-padded backside a couple of times, and Thomas, grabbing frantically at a shrub that turned out to have thorns on it, got a scratch on his palm that bled enough to soak through his handkerchief.

But apart from that, they managed the descent without casualties. “That wasn’t so bad,” Peter said, as they walked the last bit of shallow slope. “Was—eep!”

In turning to look at Thomas, he tripped over a pebble and pitched forward into Tully, who caught him handily. “Lad,” he said.

“I know,” Peter said. “‘Don’t get fucking cocky.’”

“Yeah,” Tully agreed. “Don’t.”

Now that they were below the cove’s sheltering slopes, the wind wasn’t quite as sharp—though, since it now carried salt spray in addition to the usual rain, Thomas wasn’t sure how much of an improvement that was. He was contemplating the prospect of climbing up an equally steep slope on the other side of the cove when Peter stopped in his tracks and said, “Look.”

He was pointing, like Robinson Crusoe, at the print of a human foot. 

Unlike the one that Crusoe had found, this one was shod, and accompanied by a line of others, heading for the hut. 

“Looks like he’s all right, then,” Tully observed. “Not limping or nothing.” 

“Let’s hope he had the sense to _stay_ here,” Peter added. 

He had. The next sign of human presence that they saw, under the overhanging roof of the hut, was an untidy pile of driftwood, accompanied by a small amount of ash and a half-charred cigarette packet. Further back inside the hut was a deck chair half-covered by a heap of dingy tarpaulin which, on close inspection, provided to contain one deeply-asleep street urchin. 

“What the bloody hell,” Thomas bellowed, with a vehemence that surprised even him, “do you think you’re doing?”

Gordon jerked awake, his beady little eyes darting from one of them to another. 

“You could have broken your bloody neck,” Thomas continued. “Or got sucked into a bloody bog.” Pulling the rucksack off his back, he added, “Or frozen to death. You didn’t even take your _coat_.”

He held it out to Gordon, who turned away, hunching his shoulders. “Like you care.”

“Son,” Tully said, “he’d not be out here if he didn’t care, would he? Nor—”

“I’m not your _fucking_ son,” Gordon snarled, knocking over the deck chair in his haste to get away from them. Since “away from them” meant further into the hut, all he ended up doing was backing himself into a corner. 

“He says that to everyone,” Thomas said, restraining the impulse to take a step toward him and shake him silly. 

“Well,” said Tully, “no’ _everyone_.”

“What were you thinking?” Thomas demanded—not so much because he supposed Gordon had been thinking much of anything, but because he had a vague idea it was what you said, in circumstances like these.

“Fuck off,” Gordon said. “You’re going anyway, just fuck off and leave me alone.”

Thomas stopped short. “I’m going somewhere?”

Gordon sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Back to that Abbey place.”

“Where the fuck did you get that idea?” Spending the day in Tully’s company had revived some old Army habits, it seemed.

Gordon sniffled some more. Thomas went to offer his handkerchief, but it was all over blood. Peter produced his own and handed it over. “Er, there is a bit of a rumor making the rounds,” he said apologetically, “about your going, back to the Abbey or somewhere else. There are a couple of different versions.”

All started by that letter, Thomas supposed. “Well, I’m not,” he said. “They wouldn’t have me, and even if they did, I wouldn’t go.” A though occurred to him. “Is that why you ran off? Because you thought I was leaving?”

He looked away, and didn’t deny it. 

Bloody hell. “You could have just _asked_ ,” he pointed out. “I’d have told you I wasn’t going anywhere. Now, come here and put your coat on.”

It was lucky Thomas was an experienced valet, because Gordon was too busy shivering to be much help with the coat-putting-on process. Soaked-through and just about blue with cold—he must not have been under the tarp for very long—now that he’d gotten over being angry at Thomas, he kept trying to huddle into him, as the nearest available source of warmth.

“Somebody else cuddle him,” Thomas said. “I’ll see if I can get that fire going.”

He was more than willing to sacrifice the deck chair to the cause, but a brief exploration of the shed turned up a supply of driftwood, kept dry under another tarpaulin. 

The hut was a three-sided affair with a tin roof and wood floor, seemingly designed for the dual purpose of sheltering picnickers from the odd bit of weather, and storing the deck chairs. On the open side, the roof extended out past the walls by a good couple of yards, and only the enclosed bit had a floor.

Thomas vaguely remembered Mr. Braceridge saying something about Red Indians or Canadian trappers or somebody putting the fireplace in the doorway of their lean-tos, or wigwams, or whatever they had, and decided to use the same method. If he built his fire in the sand just past where the floor ended, it would be well under the roof, and the walls would give it a bit of shelter from the wind. The wood of the hut was certainly wet enough that they didn’t need to worry about a stray spark sending it up like a torch, and on the off chance the fire _did_ get out of control, there was plenty more sand to throw on it. 

Using his pocketknife, he shaved some tinder off a piece of driftwood, then arranged the smallest pieces around it, as kindling, and some larger pieces around that. Then he struck a match, which promptly went out. The next one, he kept his hand cupped around it, and got it almost to the tinder before it, too, went out. Finally, he thought of striking the match while it was already next to the tinder, and after a couple of tries, the fire blazed up. 

“That’s a treat,” said Tully, who by now had Gordon pinned up against his side in something that looked as much like a wrestling hold as it did a hug. “Go on, s-lad, let’s get you warm.”

They sat shoulder to shoulder, as close to the fire as they could get, with Gordon tucked up between Thomas and Tully. Peter, after digging out the sandwiches and passing them round, settled down on Thomas’s other side. For a while, there was no sound apart from the drumming of the rain, the cracking of the fire, and contented chewing. It wasn’t precisely _warm_ , but it was a considerable step up—sort of like how, in the war, being in a wet, filthy, rat-infested dugout with bombs dropping on your head was such a vast improvement over experiencing the same conditions in an open trench, that you counted it as comfortable. 

By the time they finished the sandwiches, Gordon had at least stopped shivering. “Now, lad,” Tully said, passing him a cigarette, “do you mind telling us just what the fuck you were planning, here?”

Hunching his shoulders, Gordon eyed them suspiciously. 

“We were all worried,” Peter added, with a glance at Thomas. “And we’d like to know you’re not going to try anything like this again. Nobody’s cross with you.”

Gordon looked about as disgusted by this as he usually did when anybody bothered trying to be nice to him. “Speak for yourself,” said Thomas. “I haven’t ruled out shaking him until his teeth rattle.” 

Peter looked at Thomas with mild disapproval, and seemed about to say something about it, but then yelped. “Oh! We haven’t set off the flares.” 

So Thomas disentangled himself from Gordon and took the flares out onto the beach to set them off, two in rapid succession. The smell of cordite was not precisely a welcome one, and he stayed a moment, letting the stiff wind blow it out of his clothes. 

Gordon came out to join him, his coat wrapped tightly around him. “What are those for?”

“To let the others know we’ve found you,” Thomas said. Just as he said it, two answering flares went up, not far away. 

Thomas jumped a bit—even though he ought to have been expecting them—and, oddly, so did Gordon. “What’s _that_?”

“One of the other search parties,” Thomas said. “Probably Rouse’s. Letting us know they saw our signal.”

Gordon’s eyes went wide. “You told _Dr. R_.?”

“Yeah,” said Thomas. “There’s about two dozen of us out looking for you. It’s not a secret.”

“But,” Gordon said, and then got quiet for a moment. “I didn’t _take_ anything.”

Bloody hell. “You’re not in trouble,” Thomas said. “Peter’s right about that—not seriously, anyway. I expect Rouse is going to give you a talking-to you won’t soon forget, and he might have Theo keep a closer eye on you for a while. But we all knew you weren’t going to get anywhere on foot—that’s what a bloody island means,” he added.

Gordon hunched his shoulders. “England’s an island,” he said petulantly, which Thomas supposed was a fair point.

“Well, this one hasn’t got anything on it except our village, that hut, and a couple of cottages,” Thomas said. “And about fifty different ways for you to come to grief, which is why we didn’t wait for you to get scared enough to come back on your own.” 

“I wasn’t fucking scared,” Gordon objected.

“You’d have been when it got dark,” Thomas said. Another couple of flares went off, somewhere inland, and Thomas decided that now would be a good time to go back to the hut. 

Peter and Tully were looking over the map. “—black as the inside of a fucking bag, once we get under the trees,” Tully was saying. 

Peter glanced up. “We’re just trying to figure out if there’s a better way back to the village.” 

“Is there?” Thomas asked. 

“It’s hard to tell,” Peter said, and showed him the map. “This line’s got to be a path or something. It looks like it goes up to the campsite, and Tully says the way back to the village from there isn’t too bad.”

“It isn’t,” Thomas agreed. “If we could get to the camp before dark—”

“Yeah,” Tully said. “That’s what I was about to say. We could stop there and have an easy walk back in the morning.”

He didn’t sound too happy about it, though, and when Thomas looked at the map again, it was easy enough to see why. As the crow flew, they were a bit under a mile from the camp. But to get to the thing they were optimistically assuming was a path, they’d have to go about half a mile further along the coast—after they’d found a way up out of the cove on the other side. That would take them further away from the camp, leaving them with something over a mile to go.

Thomas consulted his watch. They might just make it before full dark, if the path was good—but the last half-mile or so was marked as woodland on the map, and as Tully had so colorfully pointed out, that would drastically cut down on what little daylight was left by the time they made it that far. They’d had a hard enough time, Thomas remembered, walking back from the loch to the camp in twilight, and they’d been following a well-established path that Mr. Braceridge knew well. The line on the map could easily be another deer track that they might not even recognize when they saw it.

“It would be tight,” he said. “And if we lose the path, we’ll be in a pretty bad way.” 

Peter nodded. “Tully says there’s no point even trying to go straight to the camp from here.” 

“He’s right,” Thomas said. “Once you get to the wood, the undergrowth’s pretty thick, and there’s all kinds of streams running through there, and boulders all over the place. The camp wouldn’t be easy to spot, either, in the dark. We could be right next to it and not find it.” 

“That’s about what I figured,” Tully said. “If we knew the path was a good one….” He trailed off. “But we fucking don’t, so that’s that.” 

“But going back the way we came isn’t going to be much better,” Thomas thought aloud. “We’d have a bit more daylight to work with, being out in the open, but it’s three times as far, so we’ll still be doing a lot of it in the dark. We can’t get too badly lost, following the coast, but those bogs….I didn’t survive Flanders to drown in mud in Scotland, I’ll tell you that.”

“So what are we going to do?” Gordon asked, edging closer to Thomas.

Thomas didn’t like it, but there was really only one option left. He looked at Tully, who nodded. “We’re stopping here,” he said, handing the map back to Tully. “It’s not going to be very comfortable, but we won’t freeze to death, and tomorrow we’ll have plenty of light to get home by.” 

Tully nodded. “I was hopin’ you’d have another idea, son,” he admitted, “but that’s the way I see it, too.”

“You never know,” Peter said. “Perhaps tomorrow, it won’t be raining.”

That was something to hope for, Thomas supposed, but in the meantime, they’d best use what daylight was left to try and improve their lot. Firewood was the first thing—what they had wouldn’t last half the night. “Come on,” he told Gordon. 

He started by picking up what Gordon had already gathered. “It won’t light,” Gordon said, when he saw what Thomas was doing. “I think it’s too wet.”

“It is,” Thomas agreed. Obviously. “But if we put it next to our fire, it’ll dry out some. Pick up the rest of that, and then we’ve got to see how much more we can find.”

It was a miserably unpleasant chore, going out into the rain to scrounge around for bits of wood, but Gordon didn’t grumble about it—wisely, because Thomas was more than willing to give him a clip round the ear if he had. 

When they came back with the first armload, Peter was positioning a battered kettle under the corner of the roof, where the rainwater was coming down in a thin stream. “I don’t suppose there was any _tea_ with that,” Thomas said, without much hope. 

Peter shook his head. “There is a frying pan, though, so we’ll be able to heat up the bully-beef.”

Thomas had been thinking about sticking the tins straight into the coals, but a frying pan would make things a bit easier. “Good.” 

They went out again for wood, and again, and again. “Haven’t we got enough yet?” Gordon complained.

“You’re the one’s scared of the dark,” Thomas told him. 

“I ent!”

“Oh, well, then,” Thomas said. “Here I was thinking if we ran low, I’d be the one who had to go look for more. In the dark. But if you don’t mind doing it, we can stop any time you like.”

Gordon considered this. “Mebbe we better get some more. Don’t want to have to go out in the wet again just when we’ve got warm.”

“Good thinking.”

As they continued searching for wood—Thomas also keeping an eye out for flat rocks they could rest the frying pan on—Peter and Tully started wrestling with one of the tarpaulins, trying to find some way of fastening it over the part of the hut’s open side where the fire wasn’t. It was a good idea, but given the way the wind kept grabbing the tarp and flinging it back in their faces, Thomas thought it was just as well that he was otherwise occupied with an even more essential chore. 

A loud, piercing whistle split the air, and Thomas jumped. Turning toward the sound, he saw a group of figures standing at the top of the bluff on the other side of the cove. Gordon edged around behind them. “Don’t be stupid,” Thomas told him. “It’s just the others. Rouse’s group, I think.” The light—what there was of it—was behind them, making the figures no more than silhouettes, but one was considerably shorter than the others—and anyway, who else would it be?

Tully abandoned the tarpaulin and came out of the hut. “Aye, that’s Rouse,” he said, and took off his hat and waved it. 

The other three started clambering down the slope, and Tully went over to meet—or possibly catch—them. “Come on,” Thomas told Gordon. “We still need wood.”

After they’d made two more trips back to the hut with wood, Thomas decided that they might as well see what they could find, in the way of wood, over where the others were coming down. By the time he’d worked his way over, they’d finished their descent, and Rouse was reporting in to Tully. “—about guessed as much. We were thinking of trying for the camp—none of us much fancied trying to make it home in the dark, either—but when we saw the smoke, we realized this was a lot closer.” 

Tully nodded. “It ent the Ritz, but it’ll keep the rain off.”

They started moving toward the hut. “Glad to see you’re all right,” Richard said to Gordon, who was half-hiding behind Thomas. 

Gordon blinked at him suspiciously for a moment. “Awright.” 

The response may have left something to be desired in terms of politeness, but since it contained no Anglo-Saxon monosyllables, Thomas decided to let it pass. “You lot all in one piece, then?” he asked. 

“No casualties,” Richard said. “Not exactly a pleasant day for a walk, though.” 

“No,” Thomas agreed. “I was wondering if your side was any easier walking than ours, but it doesn’t look like it.” The newcomers were all muddy to the knees, as Thomas’s group was. 

Back at the hut, Peter had the kettle sitting on some stones at the edge of the fire. “Is that _tea_?” Kit asked hopefully. 

“Just hot water, I’m afraid,” Peter said. 

“ _Hot_ makes a bit of a change,” Kit observed. 

Once they’d all had a bit of hot water—Peter had dug up a couple of tin cups, somewhere, which were passed around—Rouse quickly sized up what Tully had been trying to do with the tarpaulin and decided that what was needed were some rocks to weigh down the bottom edge of it. A series of meaningful facial expressions passed between him and Tully, with the result that Tully took Gordon off in one direction to continue to look for firewood, while Thomas ended up going after rocks with Rouse.

“Did you get a chance to talk to him about why he ran off?” Rouse asked, as soon as the others were out of earshot. 

“Er,” Thomas said. “A bit, but—well, we had to get the fire going, get some food into him, all of that.” That was all very true, but now that Rouse mentioned it, Thomas _could_ have brought the subject up again when they were gathering wood. 

Rouse looked at him expectantly. 

Thomas looked away. “Apparently there’s some rumor going round, that I was thinking of leaving. He got upset about it, for some reason.”

“It upset him because he likes you,” Rouse said matter-of-factly, picking up some rocks and piling them into Thomas’s arms. “And because you’re the only person on the island he thinks likes him.”

Thomas put that aside for the moment. “If you say so. What I wonder is who told him the rumor in the first place.”

“That,” Rouse said, adding another rock to the pile, “might have been my fault. I’m not sure. I asked him about it, in our session the other day.”

So Rouse knew about this rumor, too?

“He was being…well, more hostile than usual,” Rouse explained. “I thought it might be because he was worried about you leaving—but after I brought it up, it seemed like he might not have heard about it before. He didn’t really let on either way.” 

No, Thomas supposed he wouldn’t. _He_ knew better than to bother asking Gordon if he knew things; it was generally safer just to assume he didn’t, and tell him anything he needed to know. “And you didn’t think to tell him that the bloody rumor wasn’t true?”

Rouse looked up from the rocks. “It isn’t?”

“Of course it bloody well isn’t,” Thomas said. “Where do you think I’d go?”

“I don’t know,” Rouse said. “That place where you used to work?”

“Why would—” Thomas cut himself off. “They didn’t offer me my job back,” he said carefully. “They were never going to, even if I had been—the whole _point_ was that they didn’t need me anymore, with Bates back. I just wanted them to give me a _reference_ , like they _promised_.”

“All right,” Rouse said. “I guess Dr. L. got hold of the wrong end of the stick. But what do you need a reference for, if you’re not thinking about leaving?”

“Because—” Before he could trot out the story about a job in Lord Hexham’s household, he suddenly realized how ridiculous it was. Mrs. Hughes might have believed it, if he’d sent that letter, but Rouse knew—everyone on the island knew—that Lord Hexham’s house was a six-room cottage. There might be a job, but it wouldn’t be for a _footman_ , and he was unlikely to even notice one way or the other whether Thomas had a reference from Downton or not.

It wasn’t that Thomas hadn’t already known that. He just hadn’t thought about what it meant—that his whole plan about making them at Downton cough up the reference they owed him had absolutely nothing to do with getting a job. “Because they promised it to me,” he said, and started back toward the hut. 

He had about as many rocks as he could carry, anyway.

They made quite a clatter when he dropped them outside the hut; Kit and Richard looked up from what they were doing. “All right, old thing?” Kit asked.

“Did you believe that stupid rumor, too?” Thomas demanded.

Kit opened his mouth and closed it a few times, like a stranded guppy. 

It was all the answer Thomas needed. “Why didn’t anyone just _ask_ me?”

“Er,” Kit said. He stood up, dusting off the knees of his trousers—he’d been going through the rucksacks, it looked like. “I did try to bring it up, a time or two. But you always changed the subject, so…well, I figured you’d say something when you had something to say.”

Thomas turned to Richard, who was crouched by the fire, rearranging the supply of wood. “I told you what that letter was about,” he pointed out.

“I know,” Richard said. “But you’ve been…preoccupied, since you got it. When people started asking me whether it was true or not, I…well, I thought you might be thinking about it.” Apologetically, he added, “You’re not exactly an open book, you know. I didn’t want to pry.”

Thomas scoffed. “Well, I’m not a bloody mind reader, if that’s what you mean.” How was he to know they were waiting for him to tell them he wasn’t leaving, when he’d never considered it in the first place? 

Peter, who’d been doing something in the back of the hut, bounced over. “Oh, are we talking about this now?”

“Not really,” Thomas said.

“I didn’t get a chance to say it before,” Peter continued, “but I’m glad you aren’t going. I wasn’t quite worried enough about it to run away from home, but I’d have missed you, too.”

“Yes,” Richard agreed.

“Me as well,” Kit added. 

Thomas blinked. “Well, yes. I suppose I’d miss you lot, if I was going anywhere, which I’m not.”

Mercifully, Kit shifted the subject, saying, “I do rather feel as though I ought to have noticed Gordon was bothered by it all.”

Richard nodded. “He lets on about as much as Thomas does, though,” he pointed out. 

“He was hanging about the shop yesterday morning,” Peter added. “I suppose that might’ve been a clue, but when I asked if he needed anything, he told me to fuck off and left, so it seemed pretty ordinary.”

Yesterday, Thomas thought, he’d been writing that letter to Downton. What had he said to Gordon about what he was doing? He couldn’t quite remember. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “All I ever heard was a lot of moaning about how this place doesn’t have a chippy.”

“Hm,” Peter said. 

Rouse came back along with Tully and Gordon, and they all got back to work arranging things for their impromptu camp-out. Richard, it turned out, was building a sort of doll-sized lean-to next to the fire—or attempting to build it; he could just about get a cross-bar to rest on two forked sticks driven upright into the sand, but when he tried to lean the wood against it, it promptly fell down. 

“Is that meant to be a wind-break?” Thomas hazarded. If it was, just piling up the wood in a heap would be easier. 

“No,” Richard said, a bit crossly. “I’m trying to get it so it’ll dry faster—more surface exposed to the heat.”

“Oh.” That did make sense. Glancing over at the group who were messing about with the tarp, Thomas decided, “We need more rocks.” 

Richard looked over at them, too. “We do?”

“To prop the sticks up,” Thomas explained. 

So they went and collected more rocks, in the last of the dwindling daylight. 

“Look,” Richard said. “I’m sorry about….” He trailed off.

“About what?” Thomas asked. 

“I’m not exactly sure,” Richard admitted. “But you seem angry, and if it’s got anything to do with me, I’m sorry about it.”

Thomas shook his head. “It’s fine.” Then, because _apparently_ their miserable trek across the island had started because _nobody wanted to ask him anything_ , he made himself continue. “This rumor, I suppose. Everybody talking about me leaving, when I never even thought about it myself.”

“Well, I hope it hasn’t put the idea into your head,” Richard said. “I meant it, about missing you, and I’m sure the others did, too.” 

“It isn’t that.” The last thing he needed was for the whole thing to start up again. “You know, I was at Downton for more than ten years, and after they sent me off to—after they sent me off, it took them _this long_ to even wonder what had become of me.” 

“That is a bit cold of them,” Richard said. 

“No, I mean, here, I _haven’t even left_ , and….”

“Oh, I see.” Richard picked up a rock. “I suppose we just have better taste.”

“Well, of course,” Thomas said. He gathered a few more rocks. “It’s just that I always thought it was me. Keeping them all at arm’s length. Being a miserable bastard.” At some point, he’d _stopped_ trying to pretend that he wasn’t a miserable bastard—he hadn’t even noticed when, and it didn’t seem like anyone else had, either. Thomas wasn’t sure whether that meant that his pretense had never fooled anyone, or that he wasn’t a miserable bastard anymore, or even that he’d never been as awful as he’d thought, but it meant _something_. “It doesn’t seem to have held me back all that much, here.”

Richard considered this. “We’ve all had to hide things, here,” he offered. “And—well, when people have known you a long time, and have always seen you a certain way, it can be hard to be seen as anything different. I mean—ten years ago, you’d have been about Gordon’s age.”

“I wasn’t going around telling them all to fuck off if they so much as looked at me!”

“No, but I bet you felt like it sometimes,” Richard said. “I know I did.” 

He had a point. “But I didn’t _say_ it.”

“No, but….” He hesitated. “For someone who gives away as little as you do, you’re strangely easy to read. I mean—please don’t take this the wrong way, but part of the reason that rumor took off was that you so obviously had _something_ on your mind, after you got that letter.” 

Thomas wondered what, precisely, would be the _right_ way to take that. 

“I suppose what I mean is that we all sort of… _pounced_ on the first convincing explanation that came along. Of course one of us should have asked—I plan to, next time there’s a rumor about you making the rounds—but I can see how, if you’d got off on the wrong foot with your former workmates, they could have…well, just kept jumping to the wrong conclusions. Building up some version of you that didn’t really have much to do with the real thing.” 

“Hm,” Thomas said—not disagreeing, but not comfortable with the idea, either. 

Richard grinned, and added, “Of course, after the story about you punching that guard at The Clinic, we were all inclined to like you.”

“I suppose Syl did me a favor, there,” Thomas admitted. 

It was now almost too dark to see, so they decided they had enough rocks, and started back towards the hut. As they approached, the light of the fire and the voices of the others gave it an almost cozy aspect. Peter welcomed them back with cups of hot water, and they sat around the fire talking about whether it was time to start heating up the rations.

Each group had been issued a tin of bully-beef and a packet of hardtack. After some discussion, they decided to reserve one packet of hardtack for breakfast, and eat the rest now. Two tins of bully-beef, split seven ways, was not an _overly_ generous ration for supper, and in any case, none of those who had vivid memories of the stuff from the War were very keen on facing it first thing in the morning. 

“Besides,” Rouse said, “if we circle back around and take the path, we’ll be at the campsite by mid-morning. We left plenty of stuff there last time.”

“Aye,” Tully agreed. “Seems I was wrong to curse old Braceridge’s name for making us carry all that clobber up there.”

Gordon had not heard the story of Thomas’s dramatic rescue from his ricked ankle, so the others filled him in on the details as Peter got to work cooking their supper. After the War, Thomas had thought he’d be entirely pleased never to encounter bully-beef again, but after a long day of physical exertion—and with nothing else on offer—it didn’t smell too bad. 

“I suppose if Mr. Braceridge were here, he’d want us to turn over logs and find grubs for supper,” Thomas noted, at an appropriate point in the proceedings. 

“There probably is _something_ here we could eat,” Richard said. “Shellfish or…something.”

Peter nodded. “There are oyster beds somewhere around here—we have a big oyster supper sometimes—but I think you need a boat to get to them.” 

Gordon looked interested at this. “Fried oysters?”

“Mostly oyster stew.”

“Oh.” Gordon slumped.

When the food was heated through, Thomas helped Peter hand it out. Since there were no plates or utensils, each person got a portion of bully-beef heaped precariously onto a small square of hardtack. This method had the added advantage of giving the hardtack some hint of flavor. 

“No forks here,” Gordon observed. “Guess we all gotta eat like savages.” 

“Just this once,” Thomas told him. 

“We aren’t doing too badly, for savages,” Kit noted. “We’ve got a good sturdy cave here, and some nice mammoth hides to roll up in.”

“What’s a mammoth hide?” Gordon asked, around a mouthful of bully-beef. 

“A sort of hairy elephant,” Rouse said. “They lived all over in caveman days.”

Gordon still looked confused, so Thomas explained, “He means the tarpaulins.” 

“Good thing we’ve mastered the art of fire,” Richard added. “Wouldn’t be much fun being cavemen without that.”

“Yeah,” Thomas agreed, and elbowed Gordon. “If you’re planning any more adventures, remind me to show you how to build a decent fire, first.”

“I know how to make a fire,” Gordon objected. “You just need lots of paper. And matches that ain’t wet.”

“I’ll tell you what we need next time we do this,” Tully said. “A decent fucking map of the island. That one Braceridge did is about as useful as tits on a bull.” 

They discussed the deficiencies of the map at some length—apparently, Rouse’s team had had to detour around a large estuary that the map gave no hint of—and then moved on to ideas for improving the supply kits. It was universally agreed that tea needed to be part of the emergency rations, and Kit observed that, had any of them thought of it, the ropes would perhaps have been helpful in making the descent down the bluffs into the cove. 

This topic reminded Tully and Peter of how Thomas had sliced open his hand, and of the fact that they had first-aid supplies. Thomas permitted them to clean and dress the wound—though, as Gordon observed, the rain had already washed it pretty good. 

“You don’t want to mess about with that sort of thing,” Peter told him, waggling his left shoulder. “This started out not much worse than what Thomas has got.”

Gordon went wide-eyed. “Really?”

“Uh-huh. I cut it on a bit of barbed wire, and it got infected. Tully and Rouse had to amputate three times trying to get rid of the infection before it killed me—they started at the wrist, then the elbow, then the shoulder. Lucky for me, it stopped there, since there was nothing else they could cut off.”

By now, Gordon was looking at Thomas with considerable alarm. Thomas was half-tempted to let him go on ahead and think that his antics might have gotten Thomas killed—but then again, given what had happened when the brat just thought he was _leaving_ , it might not be wise. “It isn’t likely, with this,” he said. “Everything got infected, at the Front—it was filthy there. Peter’s barbed wire probably had millions of germs on it.” 

“That’s true,” Peter allowed. “Still, no reason to take any chances.”

Once the casualty was tended to, Tully served out a rum ration from his flask, mixed with hot water from the kettle to make a sort of primitive hot toddy. “Got to be careful with this,” he noted, giving the flask a shake. “Nothing to drink up at the fucking bunkhouse.”

Rouse nodded. “We overlooked that. Probably should have some—for medicinal purposes. People could get stranded there in the middle of winter, and come down with chest colds.”

“Speaking of things we should have, what about a supply cache here?” Richard added. “This might not be the last time somebody has to shelter here for the night, unexpectedly.”

“That’s no’ a bad idea, son,” Tully said. “Have to put it in something the critters won’t get at.”

They chewed over that for a while, discussing the relative merits of tea chests, beer kegs, and other available containers, as well as what—in addition to tea and whiskey—ought to be included among the supplies. Someone mentioned signal flares, and Kit—who was, by now, leaning back on his elbow and smoking a cigarette—sat bolt upright. “I say. Should we signal again? Back at the village, they won’t know we’ve decided to stop the night. Don’t want them sending out another search-party after us.”

It was a good point. They hadn’t arranged a signal for the purpose, but they decided that, since two flares was the “we’ve found Gordon and everything’s fine” signal, sending it up again ought to reassure everyone. “If they can tell where it’s coming from, they might guess what we’re doing,” Peter pointed out. “And even if not, they’ll know we’re all right, since it isn’t the ‘send help’ signal.” 

This plan was agreed to, and Kit and Peter went out to set off the flares. Thomas winced a little as the flares went off—he thought it would be better _not_ setting them off himself, but at least when he’d set them off, he knew when they were coming. 

“All right, son?” Tully asked.

Thomas made himself stop rubbing the palm of his left hand, under its glove. “Yeah.” He lit a cigarette. “I’m fine. Nice and dry here. Hot rations. No one shooting at us. In the War, I’d’ve—” He saw Peter coming back into the hut, and said it anyway. “Given my left arm to have it this good.” He almost had, after all. His wound could have gotten infected, like Peter’s. He’d known that when he’d done it. 

“You’ve figured out my plan,” Peter said, dropping to place next to him. He carried a slight whiff of cordite on his coat. 

Thomas wondered what they’d say, if he told them. Or even if he just took off his glove, held his hand out to the fire to warm it, and let them see. 

He couldn’t quite do it, but he did almost believe that it would be all right if he did.

They turned in not long after that, huddling together under the tarpaulins. That, too, was a bit like the War—in the trenches, you’d huddle up against somebody you hated, if it meant staying warm. But Thomas didn’t hate any of them here. 

Not even Gordon, who glued himself to Thomas’s left side, and kicked in his sleep, like a dog dreaming about chasing rabbits.

Thomas didn’t sleep especially well—the wooden floor was hard, and every hour or two the tarpaulins rustled and let in a cold draft as somebody got up to relieve the bloke who was on fire-watch duty. But it wasn’t too bad, either, and he knew he wouldn’t have slept any better if he’d been back in his own bed at the Main House, and Gordon had been out here on his own. 

His turn on fire-watch came midway through the night. Rouse came and shook him awake, whispering, “I just turned the wood—it should be all right for a while.” Then he slipped into Thomas’s place in the tarpaulin-nest, and Thomas went over to sit by the fire and light a cigarette.

They’d set the fire-watch in order to make sure that the fire kept going all night—everything was so wet, it would have taken a miracle for the fire to go out of control, but the driftwood burned pretty fast, and Richard’s drying system took a lot of attention. It definitely _helped_ , but you had to keep rearranging the wood so that it would dry on every side. 

Thomas’s cigarette was only about half-smoked when he heard the tarpaulins rustling again. He figured it was somebody getting up for a piss, but instead, Gordon came over and sort of collapsed into his side, like a wet sandbag. “What are you doing?” Thomas asked him. “Go back to bed.” 

Gordon, unsurprisingly, did not. They’d put him dead last on the watch rotation, on the assumption that morning would probably come before his turn did—Thomas figuring that, if he performed the duties with his customary attention to detail, he’d either burn every scrap of wood they had or let the fire go out. 

“You’ll be warmer in with the others,” Thomas pointed out. 

Gordon did not dispute this. He also didn’t go anywhere. 

Fine—Thomas had been thinking that they needed to have a talk, ever since what Richard had said about them at Downton getting the wrong idea about him, back when he’d first arrived, and never changing their minds.

O’Brien had been his best—only—friend in the house pretty much from the beginning. And she _had_ been a good friend to him most of that time—especially during the War, when her letters had been the only link he had to the world outside the trenches, and she’d been the only one besides himself to lift a finger to get him out of them. That hadn’t been a lie, despite everything that had come after. 

But looking back on things, it might have been a lie all along that she _had_ to be his only friend there. She’d told him—in so many words and by example—that he couldn’t trust the others for a minute. That, if they found out his secret, they’d turn on him like a pack of hounds that suddenly realized they had a fox sitting down to supper with them. 

Only when it had all come out, the only ones actually baying for his blood were the ones she put up to it. Mrs. Hughes, for one, had been very nearly decent about the whole thing, and even Carson had gone so far as to declare himself “not unsympathetic.” Granted, he’d gone right from that to telling Thomas he was _foul_ , but when it came down to it, he hadn’t actually wanted to see Thomas _ruined_. Just…elsewhere. 

It might not have been, exactly, a _plot_ on her part, convincing him she was the only one in the house he could trust. Knowing herself unpopular in the house, she might have found it a nice change, having somebody look up to her. 

Now that Thomas was on the other side of that one—except, somehow, without the unpopularity bit—he could understand the feeling. 

But, planned or not, it certainly hadn’t done him any good. So he smoked the rest of his cigarette, nerved himself up a bit, and said, “You know, even if I _was_ going away, you’d be fine. There’s plenty here who’d look out for you.” He figured it was about even odds Gordon would him to fuck off and then, well, fuck off, but the big advantage of doing this now was that, as long as he fucked off back inside the hut, Thomas won either way.

Gordon stiffened, against his side, but he didn’t go. “They don’t like me.”

Thomas considered pointing out that, if it was popularity he was going for, perhaps telling people to fuck off all the time wasn’t the best strategy. But many of them—Peter, Tully—seemed to be making an effort to like him despite that, and if Gordon asked _why_ , Thomas would have no idea what to tell him. Instead, he said, “Why’s everyone out here looking for you, then?”

“Dunno,” said Gordon, sullenly. “Cause you told ‘em to?”

The only person here who did things because Thomas told them to was Gordon, and then only about half the time. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “Tully organized the whole thing—I didn’t think of asking them to help,” he admitted. “I just told ‘im I couldn’t find you anywhere in the village, and next thing I knew, he had about two dozen people ready to help look for you.”

Gordon shifted a little, against Thomas’s side. 

“He was a Master-Sergeant in the Army, so he’s good at that kind of thing,” Thomas added. 

Gordon stirred. “Thought you was a Sergeant, too.”

“Just a regular one,” he said. “And that was when I was managing the convalescent home, which Lady Grantham was really in charge of.” But he was straying from the subject. “My point is, it was the same way when they had to come up to the camp for me. I couldn’t see why anybody’d want to lug a stretcher halfway across the island to rescue some idiot who’d crippled himself walking down the stairs. But they did.” Gordon didn’t say anything, so he lit another cigarette and continued, “Now, I was still a little surprised how many were willing to walk the whole way across the island, in the rain, for an idiot who ran away from home and got himself lost—but maybe I shouldn’t have been.” 

“I didn’t get _lost_ ,” Gordon said, because of _course_ that was the part he objected to. “I just got tired of walking, that’s all.” 

Thomas opted not to argue the point. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note details: Gordon runs away, and Thomas, Theo, and Rouse discuss whether he might be thinking of harming himself. The correctly conclude that it is unlikely.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Things Are Wrapped Up. (But not really.)

“This day’s picking up a bit,” Peter observed, as they set out from the bunkhouse for the second leg of their homeward journey, with him and Thomas at the tail end of the group. The morning at the cove had been chilly, with a heavy sea fog. No one had been able to muster up much enthusiasm for starting their homeward journey; it was only the prospect of tea at the camp that had finally driven them up the bluffs and away. 

But it had warmed up a bit, and the sky had…well, not exactly cleared, but began looking as though the rain might hold off for a while. The path up to the camp had been just difficult enough to make them glad they hadn’t attempted in the dark, and they had found the bunkhouse as well stocked with provisions as they had left it—Thomas had, privately, worried that the some of the other searchers might have come through and stripped the larder bare. They’d cobbled together a hearty lunch of things out of tins, and now had every prospect of being back at the village by tea-time. 

“Yes,” Thomas agreed. “Shouldn’t be too bad from here out.”

Peter nattered on for a bit about the bunkhouse being a bit nicer than he’d expected, and how he really ought to join in on one of the camp-outs one of these days. “Only it’s tricky, with the shop. I don’t think anyone would be too pleased if I closed it for a few days…suppose I’d have to get someone else to run it.” 

“Suppose so.” A moment or two later, Thomas realized that Peter might not be saying that just to say it. “I mean, I could help, if you liked.”

“Would you?” Peter asked. “Though, it would be nice if you could come along, too. On the camp-out.”

“Maybe,” Thomas agreed, and what a change that was, having people want him along on their outings. “But then there’s the paper to think about, too.” As slow as Kit was at typesetting, Thomas didn’t think much of his chances of getting an edition out on time if Thomas was away for several days. 

“Of course,” Peter said. “The paper.” He hesitated. “Richard said you were thinking about looking for another job, though. I thought you might be getting tired of the paper. Or did he have that wrong?”

Damn. “No—he’s not wrong, and I’m not tired of the paper. I expect I’ll keep my hand in with it, but sooner or later I’ll have to find something that _pays_ , is all.” 

“You don’t get _paid_?”

“Just the advertising revenue,” Thomas explained. “And I don’t see how it’ll ever amount to much.” 

They walked on for a few moments. “Have you talked to Kit about it?”

“Not much he can do about it. He hasn’t got an income, just an allowance. Ink, paper, and the rent on the premises takes up most of it.”

“Hm,” said Peter.

“It’s all right for now,” Thomas added. “I’m getting a bit fixing clocks and so on. But there aren’t really enough clocks on the island to make a living at it.”

“No, I suppose not,” Peter agreed. “What sort of work were you thinking of?”

“I don’t know—unless there’s something suitable in Lord Hexham’s house. But he won’t need footmen in that cottage, and I don’t get the impression he takes much valeting.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic about it,” Peter observed.

“I don’t suppose I am,” he admitted. “I was never really _enthusiastic_ about being in service—it was just what I thought of, when I first needed to work, and now it’s what I’ve always done. Apart from the RAMC.”

Peter nodded. “Dr. Hartley’s already got an assistant, and I don’t imagine you’d fancy being more involved with the treatment side up at the Main House.”

“No,” Thomas agreed. “I’ll have to think about it some more.”

“I’ll think about it, too,” Peter offered. 

“Thanks.”

After a while, Peter moved forward in the group, and Rouse—who had been at the front, giving Gordon that talking-to Thomas had mentioned—dropped back. Thomas wondered if he was in for a talking-to of his own, for some reason, but Rouse just plodded along beside him, feet crunching in the leaves, until Thomas finally broke the silence. “Gordon all right?”

“He’ll do,” Rouse said. “Seems you gave him something to think about, when you characterized this little adventure as _running away from home_. Never having had much of one before.” 

Thomas hadn’t really given much thought to that choice of words, but now that Rouse mentioned it, he was a little surprised Gordon hadn’t told him to fuck off. “Well,” he said. 

“Yeah, he’s still thinking it over,” Rouse said. “At least, I think he is. He doesn’t say a whole lot more to me than you do to Dr. L.”

Thomas hesitated. “So, does he think I’m leaving, as well?” Rouse had said something about it the day before, but matters had moved on before Thomas could ask any questions, so he was still holding out some hope he’d misunderstood. 

“Yes,” Rouse said immediately. “Or, he thinks you’re considering it, at least. I’m not sure how he came by that impression, exactly, but it was after he spoke to you about that letter he had from Lord What’s-his-name.” 

“Grantham,” Thomas said absently, wondering just how bad this was. 

“He won’t object to your staying, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Rouse added. “In fact, he wanted me to try and find out if there was something in particular that was troubling you.”

“Well, there isn’t,” Thomas said, in case there was any remaining doubt. “I’m just thinking about what to do about a job—here, I mean—and I thought I’d try to get that reference they promised me, since they’ve just remembered I’m alive.” 

“Yeah, I got that part,” Rouse said. “I wouldn’t worry about that, either. Anything here, it’s a recommendation from Theo that you want.”

“I know,” Thomas snapped. 

“All right,” said Rouse, genially. 

“It’s just,” he said, then stopped. 

Rouse paused to light a cigarette, and passed one to Thomas. 

He had his own bloody cigarettes, but took it anyway. “The only reason I went to The Clinic was that they weren’t going to give me a reference, otherwise.” 

“Mm,” Rouse said. “So, what, you figure if they cough it up, it won’t have been for nothing?”

“Something like that.” That wasn’t quite it, though. “I was supposed to get it after I was ‘cured.’’

Rouse _mm’d_ again. 

“Not that I ever thought I was going to be,” he added, so there’d be no misunderstanding on that score. “I’d planned on pretending I had.”

“Right,” Rouse said, a bit uncertainly. 

“Only now they told them I’m _incurable_ , they seem to be having second thoughts about the whole arrangement.” That was very nearly the heart of it, but still not quite. “Too little, too late, and all that. Might have done me some good if they’d thought to find out what the place was like _before_ they sent me there.” 

“Well, yeah.”

“But if they give me the reference even though I’m not cured…well, that’s almost like they’re admitting it.”

“Oh,” Rouse said. “That one. I see.” He took a long drag from his cigarette. “I’ve managed it a time or two, myself, and—you mind if I give you some advice?”

“All right,” Thomas said suspiciously. 

“It isn’t as gratifying as you think it’s going to be. I mean, it _is_ gratifying, don’t get me wrong,” Rouse added. “Especially if there’s groveling. I once—well, never mind that. M’point is, when all’s said and done, you’re still giving them the last word on whether or not you deserved what they did to you.” 

For a moment, Thomas wasn’t sure who else _would_ have the last word on that subject, if not the ones who’d done it to you. “Oh,” he said, when he realized.

“Yeah,” Rouse said. “Now, they say that living well is the best revenge—and I suppose there’s something in it. But if you can manage to rub their faces in how well you’re living, that’s pretty good, too.” 

Now it was Thomas’s turn to have a lot to think about. 

He didn’t, however, have a great deal of time to think about it; as soon as Rouse wandered off, Gordon darted up to announce, “Kit wants to know what we’re going to do about the paper.”

He must’ve been waiting for Rouse to leave, Thomas thought. “All right,” he said, and went to join Kit, who had apparently been doing his own share of thinking about the paper.

“We’ve a big story—for a change—but we’re two days behind,” he explained. “Should we try to get it done on time? Or do a bigger issue next week? I was thinking about a special issue, a day or two late, but that just kicks the problem down the road, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Thomas agreed. Thinking aloud, he said, “But some of the contributors might not have their stuff ready either, if they were in on the search. Why don’t we just plan on a four-pager? That way, we can get the story about the rescue out while it’s still news.”

“Wot?” Gordon asked.

“That’s a good idea,” Kit said. “I don’t much like the idea of skipping an issue, this early in the game. We’ve got a good reason, but once we’ve done it for a good reason, it’ll be that much easier to do it again for a bad one.”

“Good point.” It would also be very easy for Kit to get out of the habit of publishing the paper at all, once Thomas had to cut back on his work at the paper. 

“You’re puttin’ all this in the paper?” Gordon demanded.

“Yes,” Thomas told him. “Would you like to make a statement?”

Gordon scowled. “You’d best not put in any of that shite you were talking ‘bout me being scared of the dark.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” Thomas said. 

Kit added, “I was thinking of focusing the story on the search parties. Just listing all the names will take half a column, and we can get statements from the other groups.” 

Gordon considered this. “I _guess_ that’s all right.”

“It had better be,” Thomas said, adding loftily, “The Fourth Estate answers only to the public interest. We report the news without fear or favor.”

This led to Kit explaining what the Fourth Estate was, and why it was called that—the latter of which, Thomas hadn’t known either. “The other three are the clergy, the nobility, and the commoners. The Press is meant to be independent of them all.”

“So, what, if old Lord Hexham said ‘you better not put that in the paper or else,’ you’d put it in anyway? Or if that other one did?” Gordon asked.

“Yes,” Thomas said. 

“Cor.” Gordon looked a little impressed at that. “What about the doctors?”

Thomas hesitated over that one, but Kit said, “Them, too.”

By the time they got back to the village, they had the next issue mostly planned out—which was a good thing, since Tully declared it, “Time for a fucking drink,” and ushered everyone into the pub. One drink turned into several, as the other searchers showed up too, and the atmosphere quickly grew festive. Kit and Thomas collected plenty of material for their article, but agreed that writing it up was a task best left for another day.

Now that he was back and safe, Gordon came in for a fair amount of ribbing about the trouble he’d put them all to. “I wouldn’t want to be the one who dragged Tully out of his pub all night,” Eddie told him. “You’ll be in here scrubbing the floor and washing glasses until you’re old and gray.”

“And be grateful it ain’t bedpans,” someone else added.

“I’ve got a different idea about that,” Tully said, a bit mysteriously.

“Pack drill?” Thomas suggested—that being the usual Army punishment for offenses that didn’t rise to the level of F. P. One. 

“Yer gettin’ warmer,” Tully said, but would reveal no further details.

A few days later, Tully summoned Thomas to the pub during the afternoon closing, for a “wee fucking chat.” Thomas left Kit and Gordon printing the page he’d just set, and crossed his fingers that he’d return to find both them and the press still in good working order. 

When he got to the pub, Rouse was there, too, which gave Thomas another thing to worry about. Tully passed round tumblers of whiskey and said, “We’ve been talking about young Gordon.” 

“Oh?” Thomas resisted the impulse to ask what he’d done now.

“You’ve been a good influence on him,” Rouse went on, “but it would be better if he could be convinced to let some of the rest of us look out for him, too.”

“Yes,” Thomas said. “I know.” 

“Glad to hear you say it, son,” Tully said, splashing some more whiskey into the glass that Thomas hadn’t yet touched. 

“Rouse had us picked out for t’job,” Jessop added. “Seein’ as we have a lot of experience with young scoundrels—startin’ with bein’ one, on Tully’s side, and lookin’ out for him on mine—but seems t’lad had his own idea on that.”

“It isn’t really fair for you to be responsible for him,” Rouse said, “especially when you haven’t been here that long yourself.”

“I don’t mind, really,” Thomas said, which was true. “Except for the bit where he ran off because he thought I was leaving. He isn’t too bad, as long as you don’t mind what he says.”

“Yeah,” Rouse agreed. “And we want some of the others to have a chance to get used to him. Tully’s got a plan.”

The plan, it seemed, was for Gordon to fetch and carry for the lads, who would now—by word of Tully—be conducting monthly training exercises, so as to be ready for the next emergency. “I for one am gettin’ a bit out of shape from all this clean living,” he explained. “Won’t do us no harm to be ready for the next time we have to hike across the fucking island.” 

He outlined a program of conditioning hikes, first-aid practice, and similar activities. “Maybe some fire-fighting training, down the road,” he added, with a nod to Jessop.

Jessop explained, “I’ve been saying since we’ve been here, we need a proper fire brigade. No’ to mention equipment.”

“It’s on the list,” Rouse told him. 

Thomas wondered how enthusiastic the rest of the lads would be about this scheme, but Tully had thought of that, too: the training sessions would be held immediately before the regular Saturday drinks gathering. 

“We can get to work on some of that stuff we talked about the other night,” Tully went on. “Mapping the island and supply caches and all that. Maybe get old Braceridge to teach us what he knows about tracking.” 

“I’m sure he’ll be glad to be asked,” Thomas said. 

“Aye,” said Tully. “We won’t keep him out of it with a big fucking stick, so we might as well invite him in.”

“You can put it in the paper if you like, lad,” Jessop added. “Might get a few more volunteers.”

“It’ll have to be next week,” Thomas said, thinking of the layouts. 

Tully nodded. “Probably best if the lads hear it from me first, any road.”

“So what do you think?” Rouse asked. “For Gordon, I mean.”

“Should be all right,” Thomas said. Granted, there were many on the island who wouldn’t take it well if Gordon’s was the first face they saw when they’d been pulled out of a burning building, but for training, it shouldn’t be a problem. “He’s oddly helpful, as long as you don’t put it to him like he’s got a choice.”

“Good,” said Tully. “You’re in charge of making sure he shows up.”

#

As it turned out, Gordon wasn’t the only one having arrangements made on his behalf. A couple of days later—the day the four-pager came out, in fact—Thomas came back to the newspaper cottage in mid-morning, with Gordon in tow, to find Kit in consultation with Lord Hexham. 

“—whatever you like, of course,” Lord Hexham was saying. “I only thought…well, Gerald explained to me the other day that it’s more-or-less expected. I’ve a few other projects in mind as well—a lending library, I thought, and apparently we’ve a volunteer fire department in need of an engine.”

“Yes, I heard about the—it’s going in the next issue,” Kit said. “I really ought to be doing more myself, but—well, it’s my father, don’t you know. Doesn’t exactly approve of my being involved in _journalism_ , much less the other thing.” 

“What’s this?” Thomas asked. 

“Ah,” Kit said, looking as though he’d eaten something that he was not sure agreed with him. “Hexham, here, would like to be a silent partner in the paper.”

“Does he, now?” Thomas had a bit of an idea of just how he might have come by that notion—Peter _was_ oddly chummy with Lord Gerald. “What did you have in mind, exactly?”

“We hadn’t gotten as far as details,” Lord Hexham said delicately. “I was given to understand that the paper is, er, operating at a loss, and as it provides such an important service to the community, I thought I might be in a position to help.”

“And it’s very good of you to think of us,” Kit jumped in. “But we do have our editorial independence to think of.”

“Of course,” Hexham said. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering.”

Thomas quickly sized up the problem: Kit, being a gentleman himself, was not accustomed to having other gentlemen give him money—and, having the business sense of a concussed gnat, didn’t quite grasp why he ought to overcome his discomfort with the idea. “Naturally,” Thomas said. “Perhaps you could allow Mr. Norridge and me to confer privately.”

Fortunately, Kit was considerably better than a concussed gnat at reading a situation. “Yes,” he said. “Barrow and I are partners in the operation, so we should decide together.” 

“Certainly,” Hexham said. “You know where to find me.”

Once he’d gone, Gordon said, “What was all that?”

“He wants to give us money to run the paper on,” Thomas explained. “And this idiot here was about halfway to turning it down.”

“Oh,” said Gordon. “But what about the Fourth Estate?”

“ _Exactly_!” Kit exclaimed. “I know we’re a bit short of the ready, but this way, the paper’s our own. We don’t have to answer to anybody.”

“Yeah,” Gordon added. 

Thomas decided to put the kettle on while he figured out where to start. “First,” he said, “It’s a village weekly. How likely is it, really, that we’re going to have a hard news story—or even a scandal—to cover, that Lord Hexham doesn’t want us to print?”

“Well,” Kit said, looking mildly abashed. “I suppose not very—but it’s the principle of the thing.”

“Secondly,” Thomas continued, deciding not to even touch _the principle of the thing_ , “I can’t keep on like I have been, forever, without getting paid. I’m not planning to quit, but if I have to do something else for a job, I’m not going to have anywhere near as much time for the paper. We’ve talked about this,” he reminded Kit. 

“I suppose not, but….” 

“And even Gordon,” Thomas added, “is eventually going to want paying.” 

As Thomas had expected, Gordon immediately looked as though he was re-thinking his commitment to the independence of the Fourth Estate. 

Before he could get too excited, Thomas added, “Once he’s learned enough about the business to be worth paying, I mean. And we still need more type and chases, and the cottage roof wants repairing, and even the coal’s going to get expensive as the weather gets colder. Have you got any kind of a plan for that?”

“Well,” Kit said, drawing the word out and fidgeting uncomfortably. “I suppose I just thought it would work out somehow.”

Thomas’s first impulse was to point out that nothing ever just _worked out_ , but—well, current experience rather spoke against that principle. “And it just has,” he said instead. 

“Huh,” said Kit, as that sunk in. 

The kettle screamed, and Gordon—perhaps enlivened by the prospect of pay—set about making the tea. “Say,” he said, tearing open a packet of biscuits and stuffing several in his pocket, “if we take Lord Hexham’s money, can we get the ones with chocolate on?”

“Well,” Kit said, accepting a cup of tea, “yes, I rather think we can.”

Later, Thomas popped over to Peter’s shop, to test his theory about exactly how matters had worked out so neatly. “Lord Hexham stopped by the paper earlier,” he said casually.

Peter sort of…bounced. “Did he?”

“What I want to know is—how’d you put him up to it?” 

“Oh,” said Peter. “That bit was Gerald’s idea, actually.” He went on to explain how Lord Gerald was the financial backer of several of the village’s businesses—Peter’s shop included, which went a ways toward explaining the chumminess—and had been willing to fund the paper as well, but had thought of asking Lord Hexham. “He thought it would help Hexham be more involved in the village—and that Kit might take it better from him.”

“He still took some convincing,” Thomas admitted. And since Lord Gerald only _barely_ outranked Kit—who was, after all, an Honorable—it might have been worse if he’d been the one offering. 

“I’m glad it worked out,” Peter said. “It would have been a real shame if you had to give up the paper.”

It was less surprising, given the broad hints that Rouse had dropped, to find that Lord Hexham was also involved with Dr. L.’s big announcement. The pile of money that Rouse had mentioned must have been enormous, because it was funding a substantial expansion of the village: a row of four new shops on the high street, a few substantial houses, and two terraces of modest cottages. Lord Hexham and Dr. L. proudly showed off architect’s renderings and maps showing where everything would go. These, of course, could not be printed in the paper, but the article would include an announcement of a sort of public meeting where everyone could see them.

“I suppose one of these is your lending library?” Thomas asked Lord Hexham, looking at the drawing of the shop-fronts.

“Yes,” Hexham said. “And I’m planning for it to have a sort of gallery space, where artists can show their work—I paint a bit, don’t you know, and there’s Victor, and the chap who does the wood-carvings, and so on.”

“And the others?” Kit asked. 

“Sam Harper and Alfie Stroop want to open a bakery,” Rouse said. “They’re going to do bread and all the usual stuff, and a meat pies and a few things like that, that people can take home and heat up.”

“I wanted a restaurant,” Lord Hexham added, “but the village isn’t quite large enough to support one, so Mr. Harper and Mr. Stroop thought of that. As for the other shops,” he went on, “you might think about moving the paper into one of them.”

“Hm,” Kit said, and studied the drawings with more interest.

“And that leaves one for something we haven’t realized we need yet,” Rouse said. “The Main House has been getting rather crowded, but with the new cottages, we’ll be able to bring in more new blokes—I’m sure someone will have an idea.”

Thomas’s ambitions for getting out of the dormitory had only stretched as far as having his own room in the Main House, but he now took a closer look at the cottages. They were simple—two rooms up and two down—but comfortably appointed, with windows in every room and piped water. 

Dr. L. and Rouse went on talking about the details: what the rental on the cottages would be, and when construction would start, and when it might be expected to finish. Builders would be brought in from off-island for some of it—leveling the construction sites, laying the pipes, building the foundations—which would mean best behavior for everyone while they were about, and then they’d finish things off themselves, as they did when an existing house was being made ready for occupancy. 

There would still be plenty to do, Thomas thought, after you took one. You’d have all of your furniture to buy, and you’d have to figure out about the cooking and everything—but it might not be too bad if there were, say, two of you. 

Who the other one might be, Thomas wasn’t sure. But there were—it slowly dawned on him—plenty of candidates. Men he liked, who liked him. Who _were like_ him. 

Or it might not be a cottage. The village shops—the new ones and the old—had living quarters above them. He’d grown up living above a shop. He could end up that way, too. 

He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the future stretching out in front of him like that, with many different ways it could go, but none of them anything to be afraid of. For him, it had always been a single glittering prize just out of reach—like Phillip, or the grocery business after the war—or a narrow path skirting the edge of ruin, like…well, like everything else. 

He thought of coming out of the woods at the top of the mountain and looking across the broad heath to where the loch was, with any number of ways to get there, and plenty of choices about what to do once you had. He thought about inching down the bluff toward the cove, with Tully taking the lead and both of them looking out for Peter. 

Later that evening, he sat down in the library and wrote a letter.

_Dear Mrs. Hughes,_

_It’s kind of you to think of me, and yes, I am very well. I don’t blame you for being alarmed when you heard where I’d been sent. I didn’t know what to make of it, either! But it has turned out to be much more pleasant than I could have imagined. The doctor in charge sees it as an asylum in the sense of “refuge,” you see, rather than “Bedlam.” There is a bit of talk therapy and some improving lectures, from which I’ve received some benefit, but on the whole we live an ordinary sort of village life._

_We’ve the island to ourselves, you see, and with no regular folk about to bother us, we can arrange things as we like. I am currently living in what we call the Main House, which is a former hotel and is run as a sort of boarding house, where everyone stays when he first arrives. There are a number of cottages and a few substantial houses (the place takes all sorts) and a few farms, as well as shops and so forth as are usual in a small village, so once one has settled in, one can choose the lodging and occupation that suits him._

_I have, as the enclosed will show, taken up a new line of work. Mr. Norridge, the chap whose name is next to mine on the masthead, was in journalism before coming here, and decided to launch a village newspaper—only once he obtained a press, he realized he had no idea how to operate it. Neither did I, of course, but I’d made something of a name for myself repairing clocks and watches (and a few other things), so he asked me to have a look at it. I found the whole thing rather interesting, and now I’m doing some of the writing and most of the typesetting. It’s surprising how much work goes into even a small village newspaper, but with only a few of us working on it, we all do a bit of everything, and it’s never dull._

_Besides work, we have the usual sorts of village amusements: amateur concerts, village cricket, the Flower Show. The unsettled part of the island has some excellent shooting and fishing, with a sort of rustic lodge, to which excursions are gotten up on a fairly regular basis. I went along on the last one and caught a rather impressive salmon—to the surprise of everyone, not excluding the salmon, I’m sure. (There were several keen fishermen in the party, but my friends and I went along mainly for the fresh air and scenery—as I’m sure you know, Scotland has a great deal of both.) I rather enjoyed it, and may go again in the spring, my work permitting._

That, Thomas, figured, was about enough about how deliriously happy he was—even if it was all true. There was one more thing he had to do.

_As for distressing circumstances, there were plenty of those at The Clinic. If Lord Grantham really didn’t know what the place was like, I’m relieved to hear it, as I don’t expect he’d put his dog through the sort of thing that went on there._

Considering this for a moment, Thomas added, _Or even someone else’s dog._ Lord Grantham was, after all, considerably fonder of his dogs than any normal man would be of his footmen. 

_I’m also glad if Mr. Carson has thought better of having sent me there—it doesn’t do me any good, of course, but perhaps he’ll remember it if similar circumstances arise again. I’m quite lucky to be where I am; this place only takes a few from The Clinic each year, and don’t know where else I might have ended up._

_But as I said, it was kind of you to write. I hope my delay in responding didn’t alarm you further. Our post here comes only once a week, by boat, and I missed the last one—we were having a busy time at the paper. I hope everyone there is well._

_Sincerely,_

_Thomas Barrow_

Good enough, Thomas decided, reading it over. When he got the letter, and this week’s 12-page bumper edition of the _Beacon,_ off on the next boat, he almost— _almost_ —wished he could be a fly on the wall when them at Downton saw it. 

A little ways down the dock, some crewmen from the boat were unloading a large crate, under Tully’s supervision. “What’s that?” Gordon asked, pointing. 

“Do I look like I know?” But the last big, mysterious crate had been the printing press; perhaps this one was news. “Let’s find out.” 

They went down that way. “Gently, now,” Tully was saying. “You break that, I’m taking it out of your fucking hides. Hullo, son, lad,” he added, seeing them. 

The crate was deposited on the dock with a thump, and the crewmen turned to rolling a large barrel down the gangplank. This, Tully did not seem so concerned about, and let them get on with it without shouting at them. 

“What’s all this, then?” Thomas asked him.

“That,” Tully said, “is a big fucking frying kettle.”

“Oh?” Thomas said, carefully not looking at Gordon. 

“We’re adding some things to the menu, at the pub.”

“Are you, now?”

“Aye,” Tully said. “Bit too much trouble to run it every day, but we figure we’ll do fish an’ chips about once a week.”

“Wot?” Gordon said.

“Seein’ as we got all that fucking ocean out there,” he added. 

“That makes sense,” Thomas agreed. He elbowed Gordon. “Doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Gordon said, a bit suspiciously. “I like fish and chips.”

“Had a feeling you might,” Tully said. “All right, then, let’s figure out how we’re getting this thing to the fucking pub.” 

And so, they did.

(The End, except that, of course, many more lovely things happened to them all.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [An Armada To Sail On](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27720413) by [Ariel_Tempest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_Tempest/pseuds/Ariel_Tempest)
  * [And Many Returns](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29677728) by [Ariel_Tempest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_Tempest/pseuds/Ariel_Tempest)




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